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

by Marie Laval

  The house is staffed by two housemaids and a cook. There is also a gardener, although I only caught a glimpse of him. Everybody was very kind and polite. They didn’t stare when I struggled to get out of the cart, limped my way along the corridor and hobbled up the stairs but I sensed they were curious and uneasy towards me.

  The younger maid, a comely girl called Ruth, showed me to a large, airy room overlooking the back of the house and the fells. Two paintings hang on the wall opposite my bed – the portrait of a rather sad young woman, and a painting of a woodland cottage and a swan gliding on a lake. Intrigued, I asked the maid about it, and she said it was called The Hunchback and the Swan.

  Stefan frowned. How odd… The very same paintings hung on the wall of the bedroom he’d chosen.

  Now the house staff have retired for the night, I am alone in the parlour. The silence is swallowing me, cocooning me and I feel I can breathe again. Will this be the place where I forget the tumult and the horror of the past few years, and where I learn to live again?

  Stefan closed his eyes and shut the book. Vaillant’s thoughts and experiences seemed to mirror his own, but he was too exhausted to read on. What had happened to him and did he find the peace and solace he was looking for at Belthorn?

  Chapter Four

  Cassie’s grandfather wrapped his woollen scarf around his neck and slipped his coat on.

  ‘You won’t be late back, will you?’ she asked.

  He winked. ‘Are you afraid in case Doris from across the road lures me into her house to have her wicked way with me? The woman is forever knocking on the door to ask me if I’ve seen her cat, but who knows, perhaps it’s an excuse and she secretly fancies me.’

  She laughed. ‘I don’t think Doris has any romantic interest in you, Granddad.’

  Her granddad made a pretend shocked face. ‘Don’t dismiss me so quickly, young lady. I’ll have you know that I was quite the heartthrob in my youth and can still cause a stir among all the lovely ladies of the community centre.’

  ‘I’m sure you can, especially when you bring them cakes from Salomé’s bakery or regale them with your risqué jokes. Unfortunately, Doris only loves her cat and sees you as the villain who is trying to steal it away from her.’

  ‘It’s not my fault if that darn cat prefers Bluebell Cottage to his own home!’

  ‘No, it’s not… Anyhow, you know I can’t sleep until you’re home and tucked up in bed, so please don’t let Big Jim talk you into a lock-in tonight.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Trifle, I shall come straight home at closing time.’ He looked in the hallway mirror to adjust his favourite tweed cap – the cap he had been looking for since the beginning of the week.

  Cassie pointed to it. ‘You found your cap. Where was it?’

  The happy twinkle faded from his eyes. ‘In the cupboard under the stairs. I have no idea how it got there.’

  Her chest tightened but she forced a smile. Her granddad’s memory seemed to be failing lately. He kept misplacing his keys, his medication, even his bank card, but there was no point remarking on it. It would only upset him.

  ‘What matters is that you found it,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come to the pub with me?’

  ‘Positive. I’m tired, and I want to read the letters you gave me.’

  Once alone, Cassie tidied up the kitchen, did the washing-up and made herself another mug of tea that she took into the living room. She picked up the bundle of letters her grandfather had given her, and untied the faded blue ribbon that bound them together.

  There were only six, all addressed to Ruth Merriweather at Patterdale Farm, Red Moss. Patterdale was the farm her maternal great-great-grandparents, William and Mary Merriweather, had tenanted before their landlord – Thomas Ashville – sold it to them after the First World War. It had passed down to their children, grandchildren and their descendants, and now belonged to her cousin Tim, his wife Rachel, and their three children.

  Life was hard on the farm for William and Mary’s family, so in order to make ends meet they were forced to seek other sources of income. William worked as part-time caretaker to Belthorn Manor, and occasionally at the slate quarry too. His two daughters, Ruth and Betty – Betty being her great-grandmother – filled in as housemaids when the Ashvilles were in residence, or when there were guests. It was ironic that a century later Cassie should carry on with the family tradition, and look after another Ashville guest at Belthorn.

  Cassie knew all about Ruth, her great-grandmother’s sister. One could not live in Red Moss and ignore the young woman’s tragic story, which was repeated to children and teenagers as a warning not to go anywhere near Wolf Tarn’s treacherous waters.

  No one, however, had ever mentioned any letters before now. Her grandmother must have had them for years, yet she had never disclosed them to Cassie, and her granddad had only chosen to hand them over after she’d told him about Stefan Lambert.

  Cassie flicked through the envelopes. They all bore a faded red stamp featuring a woman wearing a funny hat and a flimsy Grecian dress, with the words ‘République Française’ printed in white and a faded blue circular postmark. The writing on four of the envelopes was the same, hurried, spidery and hard to read, whereas the writing on the last two envelopes was more elegant. Probably a woman’s handwriting, Cassie decided.

  She pulled out the first letter, dated October 1st 1919, and started reading. Thankfully, it was in English or she wouldn’t have been able to understand very much. French hadn’t been her best subject at school.

  My darling girl,

  After a dreary but uneventful journey I arrived back in Paris yesterday to find my mother desperately ill. Even though Aurelia had warned me in her letter urging me to come home, it was still a shock to find my mother so weak. The doctor visited this morning and didn’t offer much hope of her recovering. He said that the infection had reached her lungs and that the fever was now putting too much strain on her heart. It was something he had seen too many times already this year. The Spanish Flu, as he called it, has caused ravages all around the world, our poor mother was now its latest victim.

  Aurelia and I are taking turns to sit at her bedside. The house is dark and gloomy, and filled with an ominous silence, as if death had already crept in and lay in waiting.

  Thinking of your beautiful smile and of the day when I can hold you in my arms again is the only thing that keeps me sane at this sad time. I hope you are keeping safe and well. Please take care, my love.

  Yours forever,

  André

  So Ruth had a French sweetheart, and what’s more they had met at Belthorn! That was something nobody had ever mentioned before. She pulled out the next letter, dated one week later. This time André was writing about his mother’s funeral that had taken place in the pouring rain. He had caught a chill – unless it was the dreaded influenza – and was unable to sort out his mother’s papers as quickly as he would have wished. He was, however, hopeful to come back to Belthorn before Christmas. ‘And then we will get married and I will take you back to Paris. You’ll love it here.’

  He wrote again in early November. He had been very ill, presumably with the Spanish Flu.

  If only you could see me, my love, coughing and wheezing, too ill to get out of bed and my hand shaking so much I can hardly hold a pen. I am a pitiful sight indeed, but I force myself to eat broth and swallow the tonic the doctor prescribed, even if it tastes vile. Aurelia is looking after me, but I have made arrangements for her to stay with relatives in the country outside Reims when I come back for you. I told her about you, my darling Ruth, and she cannot wait to meet you. I hope you are keeping well and all is well at Patterdale Farm.

  He finished with tender words and promises of a life filled with love and happiness. His next letter a couple of weeks later had a very different tone – a very cold tone. André mentioned feeling weak and having to postpone his journey back to England once more, but there were no burning decla
rations of love, no ‘darling Ruth’ or mention of their forthcoming wedding. Her fingers were shaking as Cassie pulled out the next letter. It wasn’t André who had written, but his sister Aurelia. Cassie held her breath as she read the short, heartbreaking message. Aurelia wrote that André would not be going back to Belthorn. That he had realised Ruth and he were not suited after all and their marriage would be a grave mistake and only result in unhappiness for both of them. He was releasing her from the engagement and wished her well for the future. It was pointless for Ruth to write again because André would return her letters unopened.

  Only one envelope remained. It had Aurelia’s handwriting again, but it was quite bulky this time, and no wonder since it contained a letter Ruth had written to André, and that he was returning, unopened, like his sister said he would. She lifted the envelope with Ruth’s childish handwriting and imagined her applying herself as she wrote the French address, hoping that André would read her words, and come back to her. But he hadn’t even bothered to open it.

  Cassie’s heart lurched in her chest and her fingers stroked the envelope that nobody had ever opened. Should she do it? Would it be disrespectful to read Ruth’s letter now, a hundred years after she posted it to her French lover?

  Surely it would be far more disrespectful not to read it! A young woman had probably poured her heart into a letter that no one had ever read…

  She got up to retrieve a knife from the kitchen drawer and carefully slid the blade along the top of the envelope to cut it open, before lifting a thin sheet of yellowish paper, covered with faded blue handwriting and marked with brown creases where it had been folded for so long.

  My André, my darling,

  This is the third letter I am writing since your sister returned the previous two, and I dare hope that you will read this and reply to me this time. Why are you being so cruel? What have I done wrong that made you change your mind – change your heart – about me? Are you ashamed of me because I am only a housemaid and my father is a farmer? Every night I dream that you are back, but then every morning I realise that you are still far away and do not love me any more. Please, my darling, answer me. Come back to your Ruth. My heart is breaking.

  Cassie examined the date the French post office had stamped on Aurelia’s envelope – December 19th 1919. It had been delivered to Patterdale Farm just a few days before Ruth had drowned in Wolf Tarn…

  Perhaps it would have been better if she hadn’t opened the letter after all, Cassie thought, as she folded Ruth’s letter and slipped it back into the envelope.

  For a few moments, she stared at the room without really seeing the twinkling lights on the fake tree, the faded beige wallpaper that peeled off in places and the pedestal lamp with its mustard coloured shade and bedraggled tassels her granddad refused to throw away because his darling Elsie – her grandma – had bought it when they were newly-weds, some fifty years earlier.

  For once, as her gaze swept over the old-fashioned gas fire with its blue and white patterned tiles and fake coals that didn’t glow any longer, Cassie didn’t cringe at the overwhelming 1950s décor, and her fingers didn’t itch to rip the carpet and fussy wallpaper off and give the room, and the whole cottage, a fresh new look.

  Her granddad had been right. The letters hinted at a story she hadn’t suspected – a story that was more tragic that she could ever imagine.

  She jumped to her feet. Her granddad had been right about something else, she thought, as she slipped on her duffle coat and grabbed her handbag. She did fancy some company after all.

  The pre-Christmas lull wasn’t something Red Moss’s only pub was familiar with. In fact, in the run up to Christmas, the Eagle and Child was usually busier than usual. Tonight, it was so packed people had to brave the cold to drink outside, even though, unlike trendy bars in Ambleside, Keswick or Windermere, it didn’t boast any fire pits or outdoor heaters.

  Cassie stopped to say hello to a couple of friends before pushing the door open. The bright lights made her blink and a disorientating wave of heat, noise, beer and food smells hit her senses.

  Tinsel and baubles sparkled from the Christmas tree standing in a corner. Fairy lights in the shape of snowflakes dangled from the ceiling’s wooden beams, and a Christmas song played on the music system. Behind the bar Sadie sported sparkling earrings and a bright red top. Even Big Jim, the landlord, usually in jeans and faded rock bands T-shirts, wore a colourful Christmas sweater that stretched over his ample belly. Cassie couldn’t identify if the animal frolicking at the front of Big Jim’s jumper was a reindeer or a fox.

  ‘Hey, Cassie!’ a man’s voice called as she pushed her way across the crowded room.

  Her body tensed but she greeted the tall, stocky blond man standing in her path with a smile. ‘Hi, Piers. How are you?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you, gorgeous.’ Before she could move out of the way, Piers bent down, slid his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek, dangerously close to her mouth. His lips were warm and moist, and she tried to repress a gasp as she caught the whiff of beer, musky aftershave and sweaty socks that always seemed to cling to him.

  Still holding her tightly, he smiled. ‘Fancy a drink, darling?’

  ‘No, thanks. I only came in to have a word with my granddad.’

  His smile faded. ‘We haven’t had a proper chat for ages. Come on, it’s the season of goodwill. Don’t you think you owe me at least one drink? It’s in your interest to keep me sweet. I’m your boss, after all, as well as your landlord, so to speak. We could enjoy a drink or two and talk about work, life… and love.’

  She stiffened. ‘Perhaps next time.’

  Piers often liked to remind her that as Charles Ashville’s property manager, he had given her the contract for the holiday lets on the Ashville estate without which her small cleaning company couldn’t survive, and bring up the fact that Bluebell Cottage was an Ashville property that her granddad rented for a very advantageous rent that hadn’t changed much since the 1970s. However, she had no intention of keeping Piers sweet, at least not in the way he implied. She was well aware of his reputation as a ladies’ man, but as far as she was concerned he was her boss, as well as her granddad’s landlord, and she would maintain a professional relationship with him.

  ‘Make sure it’s soon.’ He released her, and she wiped her cheek discreetly as she pushed her way through the crowd towards the quieter back room where her granddad and his friends usually retreated.

  Sure enough, he was sitting at a table with David Fern and Tom Hays, both of whom had worked with him at the slate mine in the next valley. From the number of empty glasses on the table and the men’s red cheeks and animated discussion, it was safe to assume that they were finishing their second pint, exchanging puns and jokes, and complaining once again that things were better ‘in the olden days’. It was over fifteen years since they had retired from the slate mines, and loved nothing better than to moan about the ‘circus’ that the mines had become since Matt Jamieson had taken over from his father and created an adventure park to boost the mines’ income.

  Sighing inwardly because she liked Matt and admired what he was trying to do to keep his business going, Cassie walked over to them and pulled a chair out.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you, gentlemen?’

  Her granddad arched his eyebrows in surprise when he saw her. ‘Trifle! You changed your mind.’

  She nodded, said hello to David and Tom and sat down. ‘I read the letters.’

  ‘I knew you’d be intrigued. You were always going on about poor Ruth when you were growing up. I had to tell your grandma to stop stuffing your head with nonsense.’

  It wasn’t nonsense, but she didn’t protest. ‘Did you ask her not to mention the letters to me?’

  ‘I sure did. It wasn’t a good tale for a girl with too much imagination like you.’ He drank the last of his beer and put his pint down.

  ‘Then why give them to me tonight?’

  ‘I had a funny feeling
when you mentioned that Frenchman who just arrived at Belthorn Manor.’

  ‘A tourist at the manor house at this time of year?’ David Fern looked at her, curiosity shining in his eyes. ‘What’s he doing up there?’

  ‘Resting, I suppose,’ she answered.

  ‘You said he’d been in an accident, didn’t you?’ her granddad asked.

  She shrugged. ‘I think he has, but I didn’t ask him for his life story.’ And even if she had, she doubted Stefan Lambert would have answered. ‘He seems a very private person,’ she added. Private was one way of putting it. Rude was another, more accurate one…

  ‘Well, he’ll be private enough up there for sure. He’ll only have the sheep to talk to, and the Grey Friar, of course.’ Tom Hays laughed and gestured towards the empty pint glasses and got up. ‘It’s my round. Same again, lads?’

  The other two men nodded.

  ‘What about you, Cassie?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll have half a cider, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ David Fern said as he got up and the two men walked to the bar.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Cassie leaned over the table towards her granddad. ‘What can you tell me about the letters?’

  ‘There isn’t much to tell. You read them, so you know who wrote them and what’s in them, and now you understand that what happened to Ruth wasn’t an accident.’

  Cassie shuddered. ‘You think she deliberately walked into Wolf Tarn and drowned.’

  He nodded. ‘Her lover had deserted her. Her family had disowned her. She lost her reputation, and nobody in the village would talk to her or give her employment, apart from the vicar, that is. The poor girl had nothing left.’

  ‘That’s not what Grandma told me. She said there was some evil involved in Ruth’s death, and that people were reluctant to talk about her for a long time after she died, as if her name was cursed.’

  ‘I think it’s more likely that her parents were ashamed. She had broken off a very advantageous engagement to gallivant around with that French airman who had come to convalesce at Belthorn… and you know the rest.’