Bluebell's Christmas Magic: A perfect and heart-warming cosy Christmas romance for 2019

by Marie Laval

  The woman’s smile frosted over and her dimples faded away. ‘There seems to be a misunderstanding. I have instructions from your friend Charles to come here every day. Think of me as your housekeeping fairy, rescuing you from all boring household chores.’

  A fairy wearing dungarees and riding a feather duster… that was the picture painted at the side of her red van. He stared at the woman in front of him, and sighed. Bloody Charlie. Was he so afraid he’d do something daft that he’d hired a babysitter to watch over him?

  ‘I’ll take care of Charlie,’ he said, his voice even more raspy than usual. ‘I came here to be alone, not to be rescued by anyone, even less by an overzealous cleaning lady…’

  She slapped her pen and notebook onto the table.

  ‘I am sorry if that’s the way you feel, but I’m being paid to do a job, and I intend to do it unless I get confirmation from Charles Ashville that my services are no longer required.’

  She narrowed her eyes and tilted her chin. ‘And if you don’t mind me saying, this house would benefit from a little Christmas cheer… and you certainly would too, as well as from a good dose of good manners.’ She crossed her arms, and two red spots appeared on her cheeks.

  Touché. Stefan almost smiled. It looked like this cleaning fairy may be riding a feather duster instead of a broom but she could turn into a bit of a witch if provoked, and she wasn’t all sugar, smiles and dimples.

  He held his hands up. ‘Message received loud and clear. You can come to Belthorn and do whatever you have to do until I get in touch with Charlie…’

  Last he’d heard, Charlie was working in a field hospital in a very remote and very dangerous part of Mali. His friend didn’t need to worry about him on top of everything else he had to contend with over there.

  ‘But I object to you doing my laundry,’ he added. ‘I will take care of my socks and underpants myself.’

  If he was hoping to make her smile, he’d failed miserably. She gave him a hard grey stare, flipped the cover of her notebook open and took hold of her pen again. ‘That’s fine with me… So, would it be overzealous to ask a few questions about your dietary requirements?’

  The hurt in her tone made him feel a little guilty. After all, she was only doing what Charlie had asked. It wasn’t her fault his friend was being overprotective. ‘Not at all. Fire away.’

  ‘Are you a vegan or vegetarian?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Any allergies or food preferences I should know about?’

  ‘None.’

  She scribbled something in her notebook, then slipped it back into the pocket of her dungarees. ‘Good. I will get some supplies tomorrow, enough to tide you over for the weekend. Now I will show you the fuse box, how to work the heating and where to find the instruction booklets for all the appliances.’

  He nodded and rose to his feet. His back screamed in protest but he tightened his fists in his pockets against the pain. He’d give her five minutes – ten at the most – and then he would do what he craved to do. Take his painkillers. Lie down and slide into oblivion.

  Chapter Three

  He was a bear, Cassie decided as the van rumbled down the lane. No, make that a rude, grouchy and disgruntled bear, and he had no excuse for being so obnoxious when she was only doing her job and trying to be helpful.

  Lambert had more or less shown her the door the moment she had finished explaining how to use the oven range, where to find the fuse box and the stopcock, and how to start the boiler should it fail. He hadn’t even glanced at the various manuals for the appliances. In fact, thinking back to the cold, harsh glare in his hazel eyes and the nervous twitch that had appeared by the side of his mouth when she said she had to give the house a thorough vacuum, clean the bathrooms and make his bed, she was surprised she had lasted that long.

  He had retorted in that deep, rough voice of his that the vacuuming could wait and that he’d make his own bed, and had hardly given her the time to put her coat on and gather her bags before shutting the door in her face.

  He made it very clear that he wanted nothing to do with her. ‘Well, Monsieur Lambert,’ she muttered to herself, ‘I don’t want anything to do with you either!’

  The problem was that she couldn’t leave him alone, however much she wanted to, without paying back the money Charles Ashville had already transferred to cover her housekeeping costs, and waving goodbye to the bonus he had promised to pay her if his friend was satisfied with her services. Business was scarce in winter and she needed every penny.

  The lane was slippery, and she slowed to a crawling pace as she approached the Sanctuary Stone and Lambert’s car. He may not look like a man who would be easily spooked, but something had scared him, enough for him to skid and crash the car. What had he seen? Her throat dried up, and her fingers gripped the wheel more tightly. What if it was the ghost of the Grey Friar who haunted the ruined abbey, and her nightmares? She let out a slow breath. Better not think about the Grey Friar. People claimed that thinking about him was enough to conjure him up…

  Her breathing only steadied once she had driven over the cattle grid at the bottom of the lane and she was back on the main road. She could forget about Belthorn until the following day. What she couldn’t get out of her mind, however, was Stefan Lambert’s hazel eyes and the sound of his broken voice. However unpleasant he was, the man shouldn’t be alone at night in that big, gloomy manor house. No one should.

  She had hardly parked in front of Bluebell Cottage when her grandfather opened the front door. He must have been standing at the window, watching out for her.

  ‘What took you so long, Trifle?’ he asked, using the nickname she had been given as a child, and never managed to lose. ‘I’ve been waiting for my tea. Did you forget it was Friday night?’

  Cassie took her bags from the back of the van and walked up the path leading to the door. ‘Sorry, Granddad, but I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Busy doing what? Only this morning you were complaining that there wasn’t much work.’

  She hung her coat on the peg in the hallway, and dropped her bags to the floor. ‘I had to go to Belthorn. Sophie resigned today, just like that! She’s going to live with her boyfriend and work as a waitress in Manchester, can you believe it?’

  ‘Can I believe what? That you went to Belthorn although you hate the place, or that scatterbrain friend of yours left Red Moss?’

  ‘Both.’

  Her granddad followed her into the kitchen. He was dressed for going out, his white hair freshly washed and combed back. Cassie’s nose twitched. It smelled like he'd splashed on the aftershave she’d bought him for his birthday too.

  It didn’t matter what time of year it was, or what the weather was like, Friday night was pub night for Joseph Bell and his friends, just like Tuesday night was dance night and Thursday afternoon bingo, dominoes and card games at the community centre. At seventy-seven, her granddad had a social life she could only envy.

  ‘You look very dapper in your chequered shirt,’ she remarked, with a smile.

  ‘Thank you, love.’ He smoothed an imaginary crease along his left arm. She knew it was imaginary because she had ironed the shirt that very morning.

  She took some butter, milk and half a dozen eggs out of the fridge, and a mixing bowl from the cupboard. ‘Scrambled eggs on toast all right for you?’

  ‘Aye, that’ll be fine, love. What were you saying about young Sophie?’

  Sophie was twenty-eight like Cassie, but for her granddad, anybody under the age of fifty was a child. While she whisked the eggs in a bowl with a little milk, a pinch of salt and some black pepper, Cassie told him about Sophie’s sudden departure for Manchester.

  ‘Bah. Young Sophie is in love,’ he said.

  ‘But she’s only known John for five minutes – well, for a few months – whereas we’ve been friends forever!’ Cassie huffed. ‘We were at primary school together; we sang in that eighties tribute band, Bandanamama, in all the pubs in the area…’ And had s
o much fun doing so, even if, as Stefan Lambert had said, her voice had enough volume to scare the wildlife away.

  ‘Sophie has worked with me ever since I took over from Mum and started Bluebell Cleaning. How can she leave everything for that boyfriend, just like that? What if it all goes wrong and she finds out they are not suited at all and it was a great big mistake?’

  ‘Then she’ll come back. It’s no big deal. Red Moss will still be here, as will her family… and you.’

  Cassie stopped whisking the egg mixture and drew in a breath. Would she always be there, like the hills and the fells and the tarns? Would she stay at Red Moss until she grew old, having never experienced life away from the village and never achieved her dreams?

  ‘I cannot fathom why folks would rather live in a crowded city, and breathe car fumes rather than the clean, fresh air of our fells and valleys,’ her granddad said. ‘At least you don’t believe all that nonsense about life being better in a big town, do you, Trifle?’

  Aware that he was looking at her, she shook her head, added milk, whisked the eggs again and whispered, ‘Of course not, Granddad.’

  How could she tell him that part of her wished she could be as free – and brave – as Sophie?

  Her grandfather let out a loud sigh. ‘Sophie will be back, with or without her Romeo, you’ll see. Shall I butter the bread?’

  ‘Please.’ She poured the mixture into the frying pan and scrambled the eggs whilst he set the table. A few minutes later, they sat down to eat.

  ‘Bon appétit,’ she said without thinking, and was immediately reminded of Stefan Lambert, and the way his eyes had darkened when she had mentioned Christmas. What had happened to make him hate Christmas so much? She let out a frustrated growl and put her fork down.

  Her granddad looked at her. ‘What’s the matter, Trifle?’

  ‘I was thinking about the new guest at Belthorn. I’m worried about him, all alone up there. Did I tell you he was French?’

  Her granddad frowned. ‘French? What’s he doing at Belthorn?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s a friend of Charles Ashville’s. He said he was a helicopter pilot. I think he was injured in combat or something.’ Her throat tightened at the memory of the fine scars criss-crossing Lambert’s forehead and cheeks, and the way his face had twisted in pain when he sat down.

  She was expecting her granddad to come up with some silly joke about Frenchmen and onions, frogs or snails, but he only stared at her.

  ‘A Frenchman convalescing at Belthorn…’ he said in a slow, thoughtful voice. He put his fork down. ‘Do you remember your great-great-aunt Ruth Merriweather’s story?’

  She shrugged, impatient. ‘Of course. Everybody knows that story.’

  ‘No, they don’t. Not the full story, anyhow. I’ll give you something to read before I go out.’

  He leaned across the table. ‘By the way, I have a new joke for you. What do French people like to sing at Christmas?’

  Her grandfather was practising for the forthcoming Comedy Night at the village pub. ‘Hmm… I’m not sure. What is it?’

  He tutted. ‘You’re not trying very hard, Trifle. It’s “Jingle Snails”, of course!’ And he burst out laughing.

  ‘Oh, Granddad,’ she groaned.

  His blue eyes sparkled. He looked so pleased with himself she didn’t have the heart to tell him that this may not be his best joke. Then again, it wasn’t his worst one either.

  The silence was deep and absolute. Not even the faintest sliver of moon lit the night sky. No star pricked the thick, velvety blackness. Never had he felt so alone and cut off from everything and everyone else.

  No one except Charlie knew where he was – and Cassie Bell, of course – and that was exactly what he wanted. He had scribbled a note for his mother, asking her not to worry, claiming that he was staying with friends over Christmas and promising to be in touch sometime in the New Year. She would be relieved to be rid of him for a while, and not have to tiptoe around his black moods whenever she felt obliged to visit. She would also be glad not to have to stand between Stefan and his father, who had practically disowned him for letting the family name down.

  A retired army officer, his father had been disgusted by Stefan’s ‘fiasco’, as he called it. If he was to be believed, Stefan was the first Lambert ever to go on sick leave and ‘soft in the head’, as he referred to Stefan’s breakdown.

  Stefan drew the curtains and turned back into the drawing room. What should he do now? He could read the paper he’d bought at a service station on the way, the thrillers he had packed before leaving Paris, or the training manual for a long-range tactical transport helicopter he’d been asked to rewrite. There was also a walking guidebook to the Lakes that Charlie’s sister had given him when he’d collected the keys to the manor house from her London flat.

  Thrillers didn’t appeal much tonight. He wasn’t in the mood to plan a walk. As for the training guide, he had the next few weeks to get to grips with it. This was probably his last ever army job, since he’d better face the truth that he’d probably never fly again.

  He wandered into the library and stopped in front of one of the tall bookcases lining the wall. His finger lingered over the spine of the books. He pulled out a couple that looked interesting then slotted them back into place again. Nothing took his fancy. Perhaps he should just pour himself a brandy and go to bed early.

  He was about to turn away when he spotted a handful of books about aviation and the First World War on the bottom shelf. Among them was a leather-bound book with a small insignia etched on the spine. Curious, he bent down to pick it up and stared at it in wonder.

  ‘La Cigogne?’ He would recognise that insignia anywhere. It was the legendary downstroke stork of the SPA 3 – the elite French aviation escadrille of the First World War.

  He opened the book, flicked through the thin, yellowing pages, and got his second surprise. It wasn’t a book but a journal, written in French in faded blue ink. There was a name on the first page – André Vaillant, with the mention SPA 3 pilote.

  How had that journal ended up in the library of an old manor house in the North of England? Stefan poured himself a brandy and walked back into the drawing room with his glass and the book. Settling into the battered armchair next to the fireplace, he slid a cushion behind his back. A fire would be more homely, not to mention more efficient than the antiquated radiator, but he had left it too late to get wood from the shed.

  Never mind. He could always make a fire the following day, after sorting out his car… and apologising to Cassie Bell.

  The memory of the startled expression on the young woman’s face as he more or less pushed her out of the house made him flinch. He had been rude, and there had been no call for it. It wasn’t her fault if Charlie was being his usual overprotective self and hired her to keep an eye on him.

  The funny thing was, he had been in a hurry to get rid of her because he wanted to take his painkillers and go to bed, but his backache had eased the moment she had left.

  He drank a sip of brandy, enjoying the subtle but fiery taste, and opened the diary. Immediately a musty smell rose from the yellowing pages. Narrowing his eyes to decipher the spidery writing, he read the first entry dated 1st August 1919.

  1.8.1919, Belthorn Manor.

  I never thought that I would one day consign my thoughts into a journal. I was never a prolific or particularly gifted letter writer, but Aurelia gave me this journal for my birthday and made me promise to record my adventures in the wilderness of the North of England, as she put it.

  So here is the first, and very dull, instalment. Perhaps I should name this diary Journal of an Ill-tempered Cripple, but it would make me sound bitter and ungrateful and, despite everything, I am neither.

  My arrival at Belthorn today was a bit of a shambles, my fault I hasten to say. I left Paris a couple of days earlier than planned because Mother’s constant fussing, although well intentioned, was driving me insane. The journey from Dover, then Londo
n and Lancaster was uneventful. I arrived early in the evening and found a room at the Toll House Inn, not far from the station. The dining room was almost empty when I got there, but soon filled up with a dozen or more men drinking and smoking and exchanging harrowing memories and grisly war anecdotes.

  I only lasted a few minutes before getting up and limping back to my room. I don’t need to listen to anybody else’s nightmares. I have enough with my own.

  The train was delayed in Lancaster this morning and was two hours late pulling in at Foxfield Station. As I wasn’t supposed to arrive today, the carriage Ashville said would collect me wasn’t there, but I secured a place on a farmer’s cart, which took me to the small village of Coniston where I stopped for a late lunch at the Sun Inn. A boy was sent to warn William Merriweather, Ashville’s caretaker, of my arrival. The man arrived within the hour, twisting his cap in his hands and apologising profusely for getting the day of my arrival wrong. I reassured him that it was I who had travelled early, and we set off in his cart.

  As we travelled to Belthorn Manor he only spoke to point out the odd farm or hamlet on the way, but it didn’t matter because I was too busy looking at the rocky peaks and deep green valleys dotted with white and grey sheep – Herdwick breed, Merriweather informed me – gushing waterfalls and lakes mirroring the grey sky. I can honestly say that I have never seen such a breathtaking landscape. I wish I could see it from the sky, but I know my flying days are over…

  Belthorn is a small manor house with three gables, turrets at both ends and the most unusual chimneys I have ever seen – tall and round, they rise from the roof like the masts of a ship. The hall is set in vast grounds that must have once belonged to an abbey, judging from the nearby ruins half-covered in brambles and overgrown vegetation. It even has its own lake – ‘Wolf Tarn’.

  Intrigued, Stefan turned the page over. Why had André Vaillant ended up at Belthorn Manor in the summer of 1919?