Spring Skies Over Bluebell Castle

by Sarah Bennett

  Shrugging off the touch, Lucie wormed her way deeper under the quilt, knowing she was being a brat but unable to help herself. It was about fifteen years too late for Constance to start worrying about her. If she’d only bothered to take an interest when it had mattered, they’d neither of them have been in the mess they were in now. As though on cue, the baby next door started wailing, the shrill sound penetrating the paper-thin walls of their twelfth floor flat in a rundown council block.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ Constance’s voice was back to its usual hesitant whisper, making Lucie feel lower than a slug. With Mr Hazeltine’s warning over the non-disclosure agreement still rattling around in her head, Lucie had been afraid to go into detail over what was happening. Her refusal to say anything beyond that she’d been suspended pending an investigation was driving a wedge between them. She could tell her refusal to confide was hurting her mum—it was hurting Lucie, too—but aside from her worry over being found in breach of her contract on top of everything else, how on earth was she supposed to explain it without dragging her father’s past crimes up?

  Her mother had always been quiet and contained, the complete opposite of the brash, confident figure her father had cut through her childhood. Content to reside in the sheltered comfort of her husband’s shadow, Constance had left everything to him. Like some Fifties’ throwback to the image of the perfect housewife, she’d kept house and made sure she always looked nice. Any spare hours had been spent turning their back garden into a little slice of paradise.

  Whenever she pictured her mum from those days, it wasn’t in one of her neat Chanel suits as she clung to her husband’s arm on the way to some function or another. It was in a simple day dress, a large straw sunhat shading her pale complexion as she tended the immaculate borders bursting with roses, foxgloves and lupins. She’d never seemed to care about the trappings, her world had been her husband and her daughter and the lovely haven she’d created for the three of them.

  Lucie’s gaze strayed to one of her favourite pictures in the frames that littered her bedside cabinet. Dressed in a mint-green pair of short dungarees over a white T-shirt, 6-year-old Lucie beamed with pride as she held up the first carrots she’d grown in the little vegetable patch her mum had created for her. One arm around Lucie’s waist, the other held up to shade her eyes from the sun, Constance knelt beside her, smiling up at the taker of the photo. Such an innocent image of domestic perfection, would either of them ever feel that carefree again? A hot tear trickled down Lucie’s cheek.

  Lucie loved her mum, had never wanted for affection or attention from her, but at heart she’d been a daddy’s girl. Oh, how she’d adored Paul Kennington with his bright smile and booming laugh, his generous nature and ever-flowing wallet. Nothing had been too good for Paul’s girls as he’d referred to Lucie and her mum. Summer holidays in exotic resorts, winter skiing trips in exclusive mountain-top lodges, all the newest fashions—though Constance had never been one to put herself on show, sticking to timeless, elegant classics which suited her willowy frame. Though Lucie had been grateful for the wonderful presents and gifts, what she’d craved beyond anything was more of her father’s time. Those holidays could’ve been in Bournemouth as easily as Disneyland as far as she had been concerned, as long as the three of them had been together. But it had always pleased her daddy to treat her like the princess he called her, so she’d gone along with things. Even when he’d sent her away to a private school, when all she’d ever wanted was to stay at home and be close to the two of them.

  It had been a struggle at first to make new friends, but she’d just started to find her feet when it had all come crashing down around them. A few of the friends she’d made had tried to keep in touch afterwards, but Lucie had been too embarrassed and ashamed to return their calls or reply to the cards and letters they’d sent in the aftermath of her father’s downfall. If the scandal of it all hadn’t been devastating enough for her 13-year-old self to cope with, the seizure and sale of the Kennington’s assets certainly had. The grand house where she’d enjoyed her own little suite of rooms—bedroom, bathroom and a huge playroom which had been converted into an entertainment and games room as she’d entered her teenage years—had been mortgaged up to the rafters and worth next to nothing when it was sold.

  All the fancy clothes stuffing her wardrobes had gone too, declared to be profits from illegal activities and sold off, along with all the gadgets and devices as the police attempted to claw back at least some of the money her father had embezzled from his clients, friends and neighbours. Not that she’d cared about any of those things. It was the loss of security, of her little island of safety in the world being torn away much as her father had been torn from her sobbing arms when they’d come to arrest him that terrible night.

  If she’d understood at the time it was the last time she’d see him, would she have fought harder to keep hold of him? She’d never know. Her parents had agreed she should be shielded from it all as much as possible and had refused to allow her to visit her father in prison. With an eight-year prison sentence, they’d hoped he would be out in half that time, but a heart attack eighteen months later had robbed Lucie of any chance to reconcile the confusing tangle of emotions that still threatened to overwhelm her whenever she risked thinking about him.

  Once Lucie and her mum had been forced to take up residence in a tiny little flat miles from where anyone might know them, Lucie had become something of a hermit. Enrolled in the local comprehensive, she concentrated on keeping her head down as much as possible. Crippled by the desperate shame that people would find out what her father had done, Lucie had made no attempt to make new friends. Her only solace had been the quiet hours spent in the art department, where a sympathetic teacher had nurtured Lucie’s small talents as a painter as well as her thirst for knowledge. A tough-love careers conversation halfway through her A levels had steered Lucie away from thoughts of a Fine Art degree to one in Art History.

  Terrified of racking up any more debt than the basic student fees, she’d opted to attend UCL and stay living at home. When she wasn’t in class, she would haunt London’s myriad museums and art galleries, picking the brains of numerous volunteers and guides who were only too happy to spend wet Tuesday afternoons sharing their knowledge with an eager, interested girl. Weekends and evenings were spent pulling pints, waiting tables, and whatever other casual work she could pick up that would bring money in to supplement her mother’s cleaning jobs, until one of her lecturers hooked her up with a contact at Witherby’s and her apprenticeship—and what she’d hoped would be a new life—began.

  Though she’d tried several times to persuade her mum to move, Constance had refused, saying she wouldn’t be a burden on Lucie. She’d also encouraged Lucie to stay put and tuck away as much of her money into a savings account as she could rather than blow it on rent. Lucie had gone along with it, promising herself that as soon as she could afford it, she’d get them both out and into a nice little house somewhere in the suburbs. Somewhere with a garden so her mum could spend time on her knees tending her flowers rather than scrubbing kitchen floors. She had it all planned out in her mind’s eye, down to the little shaded arbour she would build for Constance to sit and relax beneath.

  And now those plans were withering before her eyes. Although no one had said as much, it had been made plain to Lucie that regardless of the final outcome there would be no place for her at Witherby’s. Reputation was everything in the art world and word would slip out eventually—if the whispers hadn’t already started, she’d be shocked. Innocent as she knew herself to be, it would matter naught if gossip tainted her name. She would have to find a new career, leave her beloved art behind and go back to waiting tables, the only other type of work she had any experience in. With the drop in income, she could kiss her little dream house in the suburbs goodbye, and with it her dreams of being able to give her mum a better life. The tears took hold in earnest, a keening wail escaping her lips before Lucie could bur
y her head in the pillows and muffle it.

  A few moments later, her bedroom door flew open to bang against the flimsy wall, jolting Lucie upright at the noise. Bright light spilled in through the window as Constance flung open the curtains then turned to face her, fists on her hips. ‘Lucinda Mary Kennington, you stop that now!’ Though her voice quavered a little, there was no mistaking the determined gleam in her mother’s eye. ‘You’ve told me you’ve done nothing wrong, so stop acting like you’re guilty. I want you up and in that shower, right this minute.’ Her delicate nose wrinkled. ‘It smells dreadful in here. You’re 27, not 17, far too old to sulk.’

  Shocked at this new assertive side her mother had never shown before, Lucie allowed herself to be herded into the little bathroom. When she emerged from behind the flimsy plastic curtain it was to find her grubby pyjamas had been replaced with clean jeans and a jumper, and her favourite pair of fuzzy socks.

  Feeling better than she had for days, Lucie tugged a comb through her long hair as she wandered back into her bedroom to find the bed stripped bare and the window open to let in a chilly, but blessedly fresh breeze. The mugs, plates and other detritus she’d accumulated had all been swept away. Catching a hint of lemon polish in the air, Lucie shook her head in amazement. In the time she’d been in the shower, Constance had even managed to wipe a duster around the room.

  Wondering which version of her mother awaited her, Lucie slunk into the small open-plan living space they shared to find a fresh cup of tea and a plate of toast waiting on the little gateleg table squeezed beneath the window. A copy of The Times lay open beside her plate, with something circled in biro. Curious, Lucie picked up the paper as she sat down, eyes scanning the open page. It was the Register section, where people placed announcements of births, deaths, marriages and—she blinked at the circled entry—advertisements.

  Wanted: art historian, archivist, or other expert with relevant skills, to undertake a full assessment and survey of the Ludworth Collection at Camland Castle, Derbyshire. Full board and reasonable expenses covered for an initial two-month period, with room for extension on proof of need. No timewasters. Immediate start preferred. Apply to Sir Arthur Ludworth with full CV and covering letter to Ludworth@CamlandCastle.co.uk.

  ‘Well, what do you think, darling?’ Constance asked as she slipped into the opposite chair with her own cup of tea.

  ‘What do I think about what?’ When her mother raised a sculpted eyebrow, Lucie prodded a finger at the advert. ‘You can’t be serious?’

  ‘I think it would be prefect for you, just what you need to keep yourself occupied and a wonderful chance to get out of London for a bit. Some fresh air would do you the world of good and think how exciting it would be. The chance to live in a castle, for heaven’s sake, even if it’s only for a couple of months!’ Constance gestured around the little room which even with her very best efforts to make homely was about as far from a castle as it was possible to get.

  ‘But, I can’t just up and leave you, and what if Witherby’s want to interview me again?’ Lucie still couldn’t get her head around what her mum was suggesting.

  ‘Of course you can leave me, darling, I’m not completely helpless.’ Constance glanced down at her tea, a delicate blush heating her pale cheeks. ‘Although I’ve given a fair impression otherwise for far too long. I can manage perfectly well here on my own, better in fact if I thought you were doing something with your life other than worrying about me.’ She straightened up, the little flash of steel back in her eye. ‘And as for whatever that nonsense is with Witherby’s—’ she held up a hand before Lucie could interject ‘—I know, you’ve told me you can’t talk to me about it, darling, but it doesn’t mean I can’t be furious about the way they’re treating you. What do they expect you to do? Sit here in suspended animation until they finally get their backsides in gear?’

  ‘I can’t leave town, Mum. I just can’t.’ Wouldn’t running away just make her look guilty? Lucie sipped her tea, half-amazed she was even given credence to the idea. But then again, didn’t it feel like Witherby’s were already treating her like the guilty party? Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t…

  ‘You’ll have your phone with you, so if they need to speak to you again, they can contact you,’ Constance pointed out.

  ‘I probably won’t even get it. This Sir Arthur Ludworth, whoever he is, is probably looking for someone with a lot more experience…’ Was she actually considering this crazy idea? Apparently so.

  ‘That’s as maybe, but there’s no harm in applying, is there?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ And that was how Lucie found herself plonked on the sofa with her laptop on her knee as she worked and reworked her covering letter, trying to find the right combination of words to indicate she was immediately available without mentioning her current suspension. If she made it as far as the interview stage, she would speak to Sir Arthur face-to-face about what had happened, she reassured her pang of conscience.

  *

  A week later, Lucie was lugging her suitcase down the steps of the intercity train she’d boarded at St Pancras several hours previously. The crowds on the platform thinned out as her fellow travellers marched off in different directions, each apparently secure in their onward journey.

  Unlike Lucie.

  There’d been no interview stage, just a cursory reply accepting her application with instruction to report to the castle no later than the tenth of the month and a vague instruction that catching the train would be her best option. Her Google searches hadn’t revealed a great deal about the Ludworths or Camland Castle other than a dubious link to Arthurian legend she’d quickly dismissed. No pictures of the family beyond the odd image on the Hello! website of a middle-aged, slightly portly man. In one he was dressed in full top hat and tails at Ascot, the caption beneath it stating simply ‘Baronet Ludworth’. Another showed the same man in amongst a group of similarly aged men clad in dinner jackets and women in flowing evening dresses, snapped at some grand party held to celebrate the birthday of somebody she’d never heard of.

  There were plenty of images of the castle walls, a few that showed a glimpse of grey stone in the distance taken through thick, high iron gates and tree cover, so clearly the castle wasn’t open to the public. Most of the tourist photos online were of the village that shared a name with the castle, and showed a mix of stone cottages, a handful of shops and a pub. The surrounding dales looked wild and untamed, and her heart had fluttered in both excitement and a little trepidation at living in the shadow of those mysterious hills. The family holidays she’d enjoyed as a child hadn’t involved a lot of trekking or hiking and she could imagine how easy it would be to get lost in that beautiful, if bleak, Derbyshire wilderness. The pictures which had really captured her imagination, though, were those accompanying a feature article listing some of Britain’s hidden natural treasures. Beneath the tangled limbs of what was clearly an ancient wood, a sea of dancing bluebells spread out to a faded blur in the distance. The ground looked untouched, as though no one had walked beneath those ancient boughs for years. A magical place, like the photographer had strayed through the barrier between reality and fantasy and if the observer just looked hard enough, they might spot a fairy, or sprite peeking out between the roots of one of the ancient oaks. Would she get a chance to see it with her own eyes? Gosh, she hoped so.

  Of the Arthur Ludworths listed on social media, none looked to be likely candidates, although she couldn’t be sure as several of the accounts had their security settings locked so she could do no more than view their most basic information. A reference she’d found in the Gazette to Sir Arthur’s recent listing on the Roll of Baronets had led her down a rabbit warren of searches into the weird and wonderful world of the Honours and Peerage system, fascinating but ultimately worthless to the job she’d been hired to do.

  As she wrestled with the stubborn handle on her suitcase which was refusing to be pulled out, Lucie spotted a man dressed in the navy and red uniform of the l
ocal rail network and gave him a wave. ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for the next train to Camland?’

  Tucking the signal paddle he was holding into one voluminous trouser pocket, the guard retrieved a timetable from the other. ‘You’ll be wanting Platform 7B, my love.’ He pointed to the farthest platform from where they were standing, and then to a concrete and corrugated panel construction behind him. ‘Up and over the bridge, there.’

  ‘Okay, thank you!’ Lucie staggered a little as her final tug released the locking mechanism and the handle of her case flew up.

  ‘Need a hand with that, my love?’

  Though she knew he meant nothing by it, and likely referred to every female he encountered from 8 to 80 in the same manner, the man’s colloquial endearment rankled her feminist sensibilities almost as much as his assumption she couldn’t manage her own luggage. ‘I’ll be fine, thanks. Platform 7B, right?’

  ‘Up and over.’ The guard nodded, then turned away towards what looked like the main ticket office. The moment he stepped inside, a vicious whip of cold wind blew down the platform, followed by an ominous rumble from the dark clouds overhead. Lucie glanced from the ticket office to the far platform that appeared to offer no form of shelter with a sigh. Up and over it was.

  By the time she’d panted her way to the top of the concrete incline and onto the bridge itself, Lucie was regretting not accepting the guard’s offer of assistance. In a panic over what might be deemed suitable clothing for residing in a castle, she’d stuffed pretty much the entire contents of her wardrobe into her suitcase—including a bottle-green velvet formal dress she’d found in a charity shop for the university leavers’ ball that no one had invited her to. In addition to the weight of her case, the rucksack on her back was stuffed to bursting with every reference book and cataloguing guide in her considerable collection. Rubbing her red and aching palm against her leg, Lucie hitched the rucksack a little higher on her back, ignoring the dull ache spreading across her shoulders. Switching hands, she towed the case over the bridge, thankful that at least the walk down the opposite slope would be easier.