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

by Marie Laval

  She should have a hot drink and go straight to bed.

  She poured hot water into her mug, stirred in some milk and was reaching into the cupboard for a packet of biscuits when something crashed down upstairs, the noise as loud as thunder in the silent house.

  She cried out. The biscuits fell to the floor. And she stared at the kitchen ceiling, her heart thumping hard. What had made that noise? What – or who – was up there? Rooted to the spot, she held her breath, but all she could hear now was the clock and her own heartbeat drumming twice as fast.

  Seconds ticked by. She slowly released the breath she had been holding and bent down to pick up the biscuits from the floor. She had to do something. She couldn’t stay in the kitchen all night. Should she be brave and go upstairs and check if anyone was hiding up there, or be a coward, go out and ask one of the male neighbours to investigate the source of the noise?

  She wasn’t feeling brave at all right now and the second option seemed the most attractive. She retreated back into the corridor, opened the front door … And a ball of ginger fur flew down the stairs with a loud meowing, slid between her legs, almost tripping her over, and ran out into the street.

  Doris Pearson’s cat! It must have sneaked in when she took the bin out. What a fool to get so worked up over a cat!

  Cassie held her hand to her thumping heart and let out a long sigh.

  ‘Oh, Fluffy, you naughty, naughty cat!’ she whispered, even though the cat had melted into the shadows. Weak with relief, and her fingers shaking, she closed the door again and locked it.

  Saturday didn’t get off to a good start. She slept through her alarm and woke up after nine. In a panic, and her head thumping from drinking too many of Big Jim’s Christmas concoctions, she rolled out of bed, showered and dressed in her usual work attire. As she fumbled with the dungarees’ metallic clasps, she groaned at the thought of the hen party that evening.

  Why did Rachel insist on a Bandanamama karaoke? It was bound to be a disaster, they would look ridiculous, and Kerry might not even like their impromptu performance.

  Her first job that morning was at Barbara Carlton’s house at the end of the street. She didn’t usually clean Barbara’s house on a Saturday, but she had asked Cassie to swap her days.

  ‘Come in, love,’ Barbara said as she showed her into her cottage and tottered down the corridor in her slippers.

  Cassie put her bag down and took her coat off. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I was a bit under the weather this morning, but I’ll make up the time.’ There was no need to explain that Big Jim’s cocktails were to blame.

  ‘Will you have a cup of tea before you start?’ The elderly lady flicked the switch on the kettle without even waiting for an answer. Cassie had long since understood that the tea and biscuits ritual was for Barbara and her other elderly clients as – if not more – important as cleaning the house.

  ‘Please.’ Cassie sat down, and looked around, and pointed at the muddy floor and the collection of tools on the worktop. ‘What happened there? Are you having some work done again?’

  Barbara smiled and put a steaming cup of tea in front of Cassie. ‘It’s that nice boy. Darren. He’s fixing a new lock on my back door.’

  Cassie frowned. ‘Is he?’ How very odd… Darren had just fixed the back door at Bluebell Cottage too. ‘Is he here? I didn’t see his car outside.’

  ‘He just popped out for some screws from the hardware shop. He won’t be long. I wanted to give him some money for the petrol but he said he didn’t want it. He is such a nice, helpful young man, don’t you think?’

  ‘Hmm…’ Cassie blew on her cup of tea and drank a sip. ‘Does he come here often?’

  Barbara broke into a smile. ‘Once or twice a week. There’s always something or other to fix in these old houses. I suspect it’s the same at Bluebell Cottage. It’s lucky there are people like him, or I would have to pay a fortune in plumbers, electricians or general handymen.’

  ‘Yes. My granddad finds him very resourceful too. Oops, talking about my granddad, I almost forgot to give you your joke of the day.’

  She dug out his latest joke from her handbag and handed it to Barbara. The old lady slipped her reading glasses on and chuckled to herself as she read aloud. ‘“What did Mrs Mouse say when Mr Mouse came back from the shop with a big lump of cheese?”… “Grate!” Oh dear… where does he find these jokes?’

  There was the sound of the front door opening and a man’s voice called. ‘I’m back.’

  Barbara put the paper on the table. ‘Here is Darren,’ she said. ‘I gave him my key so that he wouldn’t have to ring when he came back and disturb me in case I was having a nap. I seem to fall asleep at the drop of a hat these days. Getting old really is no fun.’

  She toyed with the ring on her finger. The morning sunlight caught the ruby, making it sparkle.

  Cassie smiled. ‘That’s what my granddad says too. I hope you’re getting plenty of rest.’

  The old lady repressed a yawn. ‘I’m taking too much rest, love. I’m so tired some days I don’t even make it to the community centre.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should go to the doctor.’

  ‘Oh no. I wouldn’t dream of annoying the doctor with my little complaints. It’s just old age.’

  Darren strolled into the kitchen. His eyes widened and his mouth tightened when he saw Cassie. Was it her imagination or didn’t he look pleased to see her? She hadn’t spoken to him since she had rejected his offer of a lift after Nadine Hartley’s party. Perhaps he was still nursing a grudge.

  ‘Hi, Darren.’ Feeling awkward, as she couldn’t forget Stefan’s ridiculous claims that Darren was stalking her, she gave him what she hoped was a friendly smile.

  ‘Hi.’ He nodded stiffly in return before turning to Barbara. ‘You didn’t say you had visitors. I can come back another time.’

  ‘Oh no, love. It’s all right. I’d rather you fixed my door today. I don’t want to have a dodgy lock and get burgled. It’s worrying what’s going on in the village.’

  He took a packet of screws and bolts out of his pocket and put them on the worktop. There were long, red scratches on the back of his right hand, all the way to the wrist.

  ‘What happened to your hand?’ Cassie asked. ‘It looks really sore.’

  Darren immediately put his hand back into his pocket, and answered without turning round. ‘It’s nothing. Just a stupid cat.’

  ‘I hope you put some disinfectant on those scratches. You don’t want them to get infected.’

  She got up and gave Barbara a worried glance. The old lady kept yawning and rubbing her eyes. ‘I’ll get on with the cleaning now. Why don’t you lie down for a while?’

  ‘I think I will, love, if you don’t mind.’

  Barbara mustn’t have had the strength to do much housework in her house lately because the place was a mess, and Cassie spent the next two hours tidying up and giving the cottage a thorough clean. She tackled a pile of ironing even though that wasn’t strictly speaking included in her list of chores, leaving the kitchen until last in the hope that Darren had finished whatever he was doing. Who would have thought that changing a lock would take so long and require so much banging and clanking?

  At last, the noise stopped. The front door opened and closed, and there was the sound of an engine starting in the street. Cassie went downstairs to tackle the kitchen and to mop the muddy prints off the floor.

  ‘All done!’ she called a short while later, popping into the living room where Barbara was dozing, her head resting on a cushion Cassie had made for her a few weeks back, with her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose and a book in her lap. The elderly lady looked at her with the same befuddled look her granddad had sometimes, and muttered a sleepy goodbye.

  The rest of the morning went fast. Cassie took care of a couple of holiday cottages, and drove up to Patterdale Farm to bring her grandfather some fresh clothes and the money he had asked her for. She didn’t mention Fluffy giving her a fri
ght the night before, but she did say she was worried about Barbara.

  ‘The woman is as tough as old boots,’ he said with a dismissive gesture. ‘All she needs is vitamins. Rachel bought me some this week, and I already feel much better.’ And it was true that he did look much better too.

  Last on her list for the day was Belthorn. The manor house was empty once again. As usual, the kitchen was spotless. No dirty cup, plate or cutlery was left in the sink. Did the man even eat or drink? The living room was tidy, and Stefan had once again swept the ashes out in the fireplace. As for his room, it hardly looked lived in.

  There was nothing for her to do but a bit of dusting and vacuum cleaning, make an inventory of the fridge and cupboards, prepare lasagne for the man’s evening meal, and leave his daily joke on the kitchen table. Joseph had clearly been inspired by Kerry’s latest whim…

  ‘What does Tarzan like to do at Christmas? Juggle Bells!’ It made Cassie smile, but whether or not the Frenchman would smile too was doubtful. He said he liked Joseph’s jokes, but he was probably only being polite.

  Night was falling when she locked Belthorn’s door and drove back to the village. She had to get ready for Kerry’s hen do. Cecilia had promised to do her hair and make-up, but it was rather pointless since she wasn’t dressing up but wearing dungarees, a stripy top and a bandana scarf in her hair… and a feather duster.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Stefan hadn’t planned to go to the pub that evening, but even he could get sick of his own company. At Belthorn the silence was only broken by the crackling of the fire in the fireplace, the pipes gurgling, the floorboards creaking, and the odd gust of wind pressing against the windows that made the old building groan like a ship in a storm. After spending the day at Allonby, the prospect of an evening alone stretched in front of him as long and dreary as the deserted beach he had trudged on. He would stop at the Eagle and Child, get a drink and something to eat, and watch a match of football or rugby on the television before going back.

  He pushed the door open and winced at the noise hitting his eardrums. It seemed he had stumbled on a party – a very raucous party. Three women were singing very loudly a hit from the eighties he vaguely recognised, and a dozen other women of all ages danced, clapped and cheered around a girl dressed in a skimpy leopard print dress, and with a bunch of bananas tied to her waist. What was all that about?

  He was about to turn right round and get out when Mason waved and called him from the bar, and he reluctantly made his way across the pub, trying to avoid bumping into the revellers.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ Mason asked.

  ‘I’ll have half a bitter. Thanks.’ Stefan frowned and scanned the room. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s a hen party and Bandanamama, Red Moss’s answer to Bananarama,’ Mason replied with a grin. ‘Do you recognise any of the singers?’

  Stefan looked at the three women properly this time. They were all wearing dungarees and stripy tops, and bandana scarves. He recognised Rachel, the tallest of the three. He had never before seen the red-haired woman who was jumping around so energetically she seemed to be on springs. The third, in the far right, almost hidden by the Christmas tree and holding a blue feather duster was…

  ‘Cassie?’

  How had he not seen her straight away? Her blonde hair gleamed, piled up on top of her head in a messy bun. Her red lipstick emphasised her rosebud lips, her flawless skin glowed under the spotlights. Her red bandana was tied around her slim neck. He swallowed hard. She looked pretty and fun, and so sexy she didn’t need to be singing about Venus, flames and desires for his heart to do a little flip and his body to grow hard. What bad luck! He had spent most of the last week trying to avoid the woman and fight the pointless attraction he felt for her, only to run into her tonight.

  He swallowed a mouthful of beer, and cleared his throat. ‘What’s with the feather duster?’

  Mason laughed. ‘No idea, but I hope they stop soon. My ears can’t take much more.’

  Both men flinched as Rachel’s voice hit a very high-pitched note. ‘I see what you mean,’ Stefan said. He ordered steak and chips at the counter, and Mason found them a free table in the back room where most of the elderly customers seemed to have retreated. If the singing was still loud, at least they could talk. More importantly, he couldn’t see Cassie and could forget the lustful thoughts she awakened inside him – feather duster or not.

  The music stopped as the barmaid brought his meal over.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind if I eat,’ Stefan said, picking his fork up.

  ‘Not at all. Actually, I’m feeling a bit peckish myself,’ Mason answered as Stefan tucked into his chips. ‘I’ll order something at the bar too, and get us more drinks.’

  The seaside air and the long walk along the beach at Allonby had made Stefan ravenous and he wolfed down his meal in ten minutes. He was putting his knife and fork back onto his empty plate when Cassie’s voice resounded behind him.

  ‘Stefan! Mason said you were here.’

  His shoulders tensed. He would have to talk to her after all…

  He pushed his chair back, stood up and turned to face her.

  She looked even more tempting close up. Her eyes were huge and moody and her skin smooth and flawless. She glanced at the table, pointed to his empty plate with her feather duster, and pursed her lips – her perfect, kissable lips.

  ‘If I had known you’d rather have chips at the pub, I wouldn’t have spent an hour making lasagne for your tea.’

  ‘Ah. Sorry. Stopping here was a spur-of-the-moment decision.’

  She shrugged. ‘Never mind. It’ll keep until tomorrow.’

  He nodded again, stuck for something to say. ‘The singing was… interesting,’ he said, cursing himself for sounding so dense.

  Her cheeks coloured. ‘You don’t have to pretend. I know what you think of my voice… It was awful.’

  ‘Your friends seemed to like it.’

  She laughed. ‘After a few of Big Jim’s cocktails, they would sing and dance to anything.’

  They stood in front of each other without speaking for what felt like a long, awkward minute, so to break the silence, he asked, ‘What’s with the feather duster?’

  She ruffled the blue feathers with her fingers and smiled. ‘That’s another of Rachel’s brilliant ideas. She wants me to tickle people to make them laugh and put them in a good mood. Personally, I don’t think it’ll work. Perhaps you could be my first guinea pig.’ A mischievous smile appeared on her lips, and dug dimples so cute in her round cheeks a flash of pure lust coursed through him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked in a voice even more croaky than usual.

  ‘Testing Rachel’s theory.’

  The tip of the feather duster caressed his face, his throat. His whole body tensed and hardened, but he resisted taking a step back.

  ‘You’re wasting your time. I’m not ticklish.’

  She lowered the feather duster and shrugged. ‘Too bad… Ah well, the night is young and I’m sure there will be plenty of ticklish people around I can cheer up.’

  Mason walked back into the room, a plate of chips in his hand. ‘Sorry I was so long. The girls are looking for you, Cassie. The minibus has arrived to take you to the restaurant.’

  ‘Very well. Gentlemen, I wish you a pleasant evening.’ Turning to Stefan, she added, ‘It’s going to be a long night, so I’ll come to Belthorn in the afternoon, if that’s all right with you.’

  He clenched his jaw. ‘I already told you that you don’t need to come every day and I can—’

  ‘Manage perfectly well on your own,’ she finished with a tutting sound. ‘Yes, you said that before, and I said that I had a job to do.’

  She winked, and with a last flourish of her feather duster, turned round and walked out, swaying her hips in the most enticing manner. He swallowed hard. Who would have known that dungarees could be so sexy?

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ Mason remarked as he sat
down, ‘but I’d rather stay away from Cassie and her feather duster tonight. I don’t want to disgrace myself and fall about in fits of giggles if she tickles me.’

  Stefan nodded but it wasn’t giggling helplessly he was worried about if Cassie tickled him again with her feather duster – it was not being able to resist the urge to yank her to him and to kiss her.

  The thunder of machine gunfire hit the plane. The wind burned his face. He tasted the smoke billowing from the engine, and terror gripped his insides as the plane spiralled through the clouds and the ground loomed closer. He was going to die. He was already dead…

  He woke up with a start and sat up so fast he banged his head against the headboard. Sweat stuck his T-shirt to his chest, his heart galloped hard and fast and panic dried his throat. As his eyes gradually became accustomed to the darkness, he made out the outlines of the furniture, the curtains and the paintings on the wall opposite, and fear loosened its iron grip. He wasn’t in a SPA 3 plane falling to his death. He was at Belthorn, safe in bed.

  He rubbed his face hard and drew in a deep breath. It wasn’t the familiar nightmare that forced him to relive over and over again the trauma of his helicopter bursting into flames in front of him, but it was almost as harrowing. That was what André Vaillant and his comrades must have experienced day in, day out, as they flew their planes over the battlefields of Northern France over a hundred years before.

  Vaillant… Why was he unable to stop thinking about the man?

  He got up, dragged on his jogging pants over his boxer shorts, put on a fresh T-shirt and a sweatshirt and, his breath steaming in the freezing cold house, he went downstairs to make coffee and light a fire.

  He drew the drawing room curtains onto the greying dawn. Once the fire got going and gave out both light and warmth, he sat down in the old armchair. Cassie had made yet another cushion – this time one with green and red tassels that reminded him of the pom-poms on her hat. He shook his head. The woman was obsessed with making cushions. There were new ones everywhere – in his bedroom, in the library and even the dreary dining room where he never ate, and of course, in the drawing room. Not that he complained, far from it. At least they smelled nice, were soft and colourful, and supported his back when he sat down to read.