Spring Skies Over Bluebell Castle

by Sarah Bennett

  The Masterson case had been plastered all over the papers for months. At first, Lucie had tried to avoid it, but after a while she’d found herself obsessed with the man behind the case, reading every article about him she could lay her hands on. Almost every story had been accompanied by the same image—Masterson clutching a champagne flute, a broad grin plastered across his too-shiny face. Profile after profile had sought, and failed, to answer the question that had seeded Lucie’s obsession—why he’d done it. It didn’t take a genius, or the adult therapy sessions she’d never got around to booking to understand she’d been trying to draw a parallel between Masterson and her own father. As if finding out what had made him tick would somehow draw back the veil and help her understand what had driven her dad all those years ago into inflicting the same kind of misery and heartache on so many people, not least his own wife and daughter.

  Reaching for her purse on the bedside cabinet, she pulled out the yellowed newspaper clipping she still carried everywhere with her. There wasn’t much more than a paragraph beneath the grainy photo, just a bare statement of the facts concluding with the damning words the judge had uttered when passing down her father’s sentence: ‘There is often a misconception that financial crimes such as yours, Mr Kennington, are victimless, because no physical harm has been caused by your actions. Nothing could be further from the truth. You systematically lied to and betrayed those who had every reason to trust you—your friends and family. They will be counting the cost of your actions for very many years to come.’

  Lucie stared at the last picture ever taken of her father and wondered once again why he’d done it. Eyes so like her own stared back at her, revealing nothing new. With a sigh, she carefully refolded the article and tucked it away behind the smiling picture of Lucie and her mum taken on graduation day. Switching her purse for her phone, Lucie pressed the number at the top of her calls list and lay back down on the bed.

  A few moments later the familiar soft voice of her mother greeted her. ‘Hello, darling, how lovely to hear from you. How’s it all going?’

  It was on the tip of her tongue to pour everything out—her attraction to Arthur, the ever-present worry over having heard nothing new from Witherby’s, the endless questions about her father, but she took a deep breath instead. She was a grown-up now, not a child to keep throwing her worries at her mother’s feet and expecting her to pick up the pieces. ‘It’s going really well, thanks. I think we’re making a lot of progress, and you’ll never guess what I found yesterday!’ As she gushed to her mother about finding the sketch of Eudora Baines and they discussed what it might mean, a sense of calm settled over Lucie. She was there to do a job; everything else was a distraction.

  *

  By the end of the next week, Lucie was feeling much more like her old self as she tucked herself into a corner of one of the sofas in the family room where everyone had gathered after dinner to relax for an hour before bed. Arthur was present for a change, head bent over a notebook as he scribbled away. He’d thrown himself into his plans to open the castle to the public, spending hours closeted away with Tristan in his study. She hadn’t seen him alone since their walk in the woods, and she was grateful he seemed as eager to avoid discussing the matter as she was. Best to let sleeping dogs lie, and all that.

  The cataloguing of the rooms was proceeding apace. Arthur and Tristan had covered nearly all the ground floor, assuring her it was as useful for their own plans as it was for her work, because it gave them a chance to discuss which rooms they might want to open. Leaving them to it, Lucie herself had made short work of over half the rooms on the first floor. There was still the top floor to do, but from what Arthur and his brother could remember from exploring up there, quite a number were empty or used as general storage.

  The family documents and castle records had now been sorted by type and date. Although she’d only been able to carry out a rudimentary review of the information, she was excited at the prospect of digging deeper into the backstory of the Ludworths. Whether she’d ever get the chance to do that was still very much up in the air, as Arthur had made no mention of extending her time at the castle beyond the original two months she was contracted to work there. Time was flying, and the end of the first of those two months was already looming just beyond the horizon.

  Everywhere she looked there were signs the castle was gearing up towards Morgana’s big party the following weekend. A marquee had appeared on the large back lawn behind the orangery, thanks to a contact of Tristan’s who provided it for free in return for an invitation to bring his wife and kids to stay for the weekend, and it was all hands to the pump in the kitchen. Morgana had treated the arrival of the enormous white tent with a disdainful glare but had otherwise held her own counsel about the plans for her birthday celebrations.

  Lucie’s mum had been delighted to receive an invitation to stay and would be arriving on Tuesday’s train. Being away from her for the past month had been the longest they’d spent apart since Lucie had been at boarding school, and she was very much looking forward to spending a bit of time with her. She’d still heard nothing further from anyone at Witherby’s, though her monthly salary had been paid in as normal. Knowing she was being a coward about it, Lucie had decided not to chase for an update into the investigation. Deep down, she knew it was only a temporary relief, but she was determined to make the most of it. The inroads she was making into her current project were starting to repair the dents in her confidence.

  Turning her attention back to the journal held in her lap, Lucie browsed through a few more pages, but it wasn’t long before the words were swimming before her eyes. Although the weather had remained fine, there was still a distinct chill in the air in the evenings and the heat from the logs crackling in the fireplace was making her drowsy.

  She wasn’t the only one struggling to keep her eyes open from the duet of snores coming from the opposite sofa where Tristan lay with his feet dangling over one arm, his terrier, Pippin, snoozing on his chest. Nimrod and Bella had curled on the hearthrug, noses resting on each other’s flanks.

  As though sensing her eyes upon him, Tristan sat abruptly, scrubbing his face. ‘God, I’m getting old before my time, with these after-dinner naps.’ Rubbing his hands together, he looked expectantly around the room. ‘Right, who fancies a nightcap?’

  ‘Nothing for me,’ Arthur replied. ‘How about you, Lucie?’

  Almost jumping in surprise as Arthur very rarely addressed her directly these days, she shook her head. ‘I’m okay, thanks.’

  ‘More for me then,’ Tristan said, making his way over to the glass-fronted drinks cabinet.

  He’d just poured a measure of brandy when the door swung open and Lancelot entered, chafing his hands together. ‘Oh, good call, my boy! It’s brass monkeys out there.’

  Tristan handed his uncle the glass and tipped a similar amount into a second before joining him on the sofa. ‘How’s the foal?’

  Lancelot took a sip of his brandy and slumped back into the deep padding of the sofa with a satisfied sigh. ‘He’s grand, and the mare too, thank goodness. I’ve just seen the vet off and Iggy’s volunteered to keep an eye on things for an hour or so.’

  Arthur shoved his notebook aside and rose. ‘We got Betsy to put you something by, shall I fetch you a tray?’

  ‘That’d be smashing, thanks.’ Behind the twinkling delight at seeing a new life safely into the world, deep lines of fatigue lined Lancelot’s face. ‘And then I’ll have a hot shower and I’ll be right as rain.’

  ‘You’re not planning to sit up all night with them, are you?’ Tristan frowned. ‘Because if you are, you can forget about it.’ Draining his glass, he rose. ‘I’ll turn in now and grab a couple of hours and then I can relieve you around midnight.’

  ‘There’s no need for that, my boy,’ Lancelot protested, but Tristan was having none of it and after a brief back and forth he left the room, chin set in a determined line. Shaking his head, Lancelot stared after his retreating
back. ‘Always trying to look out for everyone else, that one.’

  It hadn’t occurred to Lucie until he said it, but it was true. Behind his flashy smiles and teasing, Tristan hid a huge heart. Arthur had told her how his brother had put his career on hold to come home when their father fell ill, and stayed on to help Arthur when it became clear how tough things were going to be over the coming months. How hard must it have been to just up and walk away from the life he’d been building for himself, and for no reward other than helping Arthur? There’d be no title in it for Tristan. If they managed to save things, he’d still be the younger son.

  And then there was the way he’d thrown himself into helping with Lucie’s survey. Every day since Arthur had roped him in, he’d taken himself off with his phone and tablet to spend the morning photographing and recording without so much as a murmur of complaint. He had a bloody good eye, although he’d laughed off her attempts to compliment him on it. Only yesterday, he’d discovered a very fine eighteenth-century mahogany card table half-hidden beneath a lace cloth in one of the drawing rooms and brought it to Lucie’s attention when they’d been reviewing his photos over lunch.

  She’d need to get a second opinion and hunt through the castle’s purchase ledgers to trace the provenance, but it made her pulse race in the right way. If the table could be attributed to a master craftsman from the period, it could realise in excess of twenty thousand pounds. A drop in the ocean of what the family needed, but she had at least a dozen other items on her list with the potential to bring as much, if not more into the coffers. Not that she’d told Arthur any of this yet.

  It was stupid, really, given the items she’d valued and handled every day at Witherby’s, but it was too important. If she screwed this up, she’d never get another chance again. So, for now at least, she was keeping her cards close to her chest and refusing to be drawn beyond saying they warranted a closer evaluation.

  Lancelot leaned forward to pat her knee. ‘You’re brooding, my dear. Anything an old codger can do to help?’

  She couldn’t help but chuckle. ‘Come on, now. You know you’re a silver fox, stop fishing for compliments.’

  Throwing back his head, he roared with laughter. ‘Damn, you’re good for an old man’s ego. If you were only twenty years older, I’d sweep you off your feet.’

  ‘Behave yourself!’ Arthur exclaimed as he re-entered the room bearing a tray laden with covered plates. ‘I can’t turn my back for a minute.’ Having placed the tray down on a side table his uncle hastily dragged over, he sank down on the sofa next to Lucie close enough their shoulders were almost touching. ‘Besides, the only Ludworth she’s interested in is Thomas.’

  ‘Ah, yes, good old King Arthur himself,’ Lancelot said with a wry smile as he laid his napkin over one knee and removed the cover from a steaming plate of food. ‘Damn, this smells good. Perhaps I should run off with Betsy instead.’ As the cook had been happily married to her childhood sweetheart for the past thirty years, that seemed highly unlikely.

  Arthur wagged a finger at him. ‘No poaching any of my staff.’

  ‘Ah, you know me, my boy, too much of a rolling stone to ever settle down.’ There was something about the way he said it that struck Lucie deeply, but she made sure to smile when Lancelot caught her eye and winked. He forked up a mouthful of dinner, then paused with it close to his lips. ‘So tell me what our Thomas has been up to.’

  Flicking back through the journal to find her place, Lucie let her eyes roam over the page. ‘Did you know he had an interest in art? He seems to have spent more time at university roaming around galleries than carousing in bars.’

  Lancelot glanced over at Arthur. ‘Are we sure he’s one of us?’

  His nephew chuckled. ‘I definitely fell into the carousing category.’

  Feeling more than a little out of place over her studious tendencies, Lucie joked, ‘Not all of us drank our way through our courses. Some of us actually applied ourselves.’

  An awkward silence fell, and she wished she’d just kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t meant to sound critical, she had nothing but admiration for Arthur’s work ethic, something he seemed to share with the whole family. It was his fault for sitting to close to her, unsettling her once again just when she’d convinced herself she was over her silly attraction to him. Shifting in her seat, she tried to make more room between them, but the opposite happened, the cushion beneath her softening until she was all but rested up against Arthur’s hip. She froze, not daring to move any more in case it made things worse.

  Appearing not to notice, Arthur turned his attention to his uncle. ‘If you need me to pull a shift in the stables tonight, you only have to say.’

  Lancelot looked up. ‘No, no, it’s fine. I don’t think I really need to be there, I just like to keep an eye on things, you know? Tristan won’t be persuaded otherwise, but I won’t keep the rest of you up half the night.’ Meal finished, he pushed the little table to one side. ‘Time for a hot shower. I’ll see you two anon.’

  ‘You’ll call if you need me, though?’ When he received a nod of confirmation as Lancelot left the room, Arthur settled back into the sofa and retrieved his notebook. ‘Well, if no one’s going to rescue me, I’d better get back to this.’ His aggrieved sigh was so loud it caused Nimrod to stir. The greyhound raised his head from the fireside rug to check his master was okay before settling back down.

  Curling her feet up beside her to create a barrier of sorts between them, Lucie leaned as far into the arm of the sofa as she could and turned her attention back to Thomas’s journal. Having finished at university, he’d moved down to London and seemed hellbent on expanding his mind in as many different directions as possible. She skimmed over several pages where he listed his extensive thoughts on lectures he’d attended on everything from art, to politics, and even to new developments in dentistry. Which was all very interesting, but wasn’t getting Lucie anywhere.

  A huge yawn caught her off guard, and she smothered it with one hand, the journal slipping from the arm in the process. She grabbed for it, missed and almost toppled over the side of the sofa as she leant forward to grab it. Only Arthur’s hand grasping her hip kept her from falling. The journal lay face up, and it was a natural reaction to scan the words as she reached for it. A name caught her eye. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ Excitement welling, she continued to read, getting lost in Thomas’s encounter with a woman on a visit to the newly founded National Portrait Gallery. As she hurriedly turned the page, Arthur squeezed her hip and she realised she was still hanging half-on, half-off the sofa.

  Struggling back upright, she waved the journal under his nose. ‘He met her! He met Eudora!’

  ‘What? Where?’ Notebook forgotten, Arthur huddled close. Squinting at the cramped writing, he was quiet for a few moments before shaking his head. ‘I don’t know how you can make heads or tails of this.’

  ‘It takes a bit of getting used to.’ Lucie pointed to the first mention. ‘Look, here it says, “I had a most fortunate meeting when attending the new National Portrait Gallery with Bertie this morning. As I turned away from the Chandos portrait, I almost collided with the fairest young woman it’s ever been my pleasure to lay eyes upon. I swear my heart leapt in recognition of a kindred spirit.”’ Lucie glanced up. ‘Thomas is a romantic.’

  Arthur rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, yeah, he’s amazing.’ He nudged her shoulder. ‘Go on, what else does he say.’

  Lucie found her place once more. ‘“Fortune smiled twice, for not only did I see this rare beauty, I was able to gain an introduction as it turned out Bertie is acquainted with her through some cousinly connection. We talked pleasantly for a few minutes, though I fear the pleasantness was all upon her part as my tongue tripped over itself more than once. She did not seem to mind my clumsiness, indeed, she listened most carefully to my thoughts on the Chandos portrait, and was free with her own in a way I found most refreshing. I have already imposed upon Bertie to invite me to their next family gathering, for I must see Eud
ora again.”’

  She closed the journal with a happy sigh. ‘Our Thomas is smitten.’

  ‘Certainly sounds like it.’ Arthur spoke from so close, his breath stirred a curl of hair on her cheek. His arm was still somehow around her from when he’d helped her back to sitting, unnoticed until now in her excitement. It felt good around her, too good, but she was tired of fighting feelings she longed only to surrender to. Breathless, Lucie lifted her eyes to find him staring down at her, that intense look burning in his hazel gaze. ‘I wasn’t expecting a love affair, although this has all the hallmarks of one,’ she found herself whispering to him, not sure if she was referring to Thomas’s situation or their own.’

  She wasn’t sure if he bent to her, or if she stretched up to him, but as their lips met and her eyelashes fluttered closed at the sheer rightness of it, Arthur murmured across her mouth, ‘Yes, it certainly does.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next evening, Arthur had some accounts to catch up on, so Lucie joined him in his study after dinner. Running his pen down the column of numbers, he tried to focus on the painful number of outgoings and not on the woman who’d taken over his favourite wing-backed chair by the window. She’d eschewed closing the thick velvet curtains in favour of letting the pale silvery light from the full moon spill in through the pitch-black glass, choosing instead to cover her lap with a thick tartan blanket she’d retrieved from her bedroom. A mug of tea and a plate of shortbread Betsy had sent with it—on account of Miss Lucie skipping dessert according to Maxwell when he’d brought their drinks in—rested on the small, round table at her elbow. In just a few short minutes, she’d made his favourite spot into her own space, and he liked how much she looked at home there.