The Bluebell Castle Collection

by Sarah Bennett

  ‘What are you doing here, Eudora?’ she murmured as she hugged the little frame close to her chest. It was a mystery, and one she was determined to solve.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was with some trepidation that Arthur stuck his around the dining room door that lunchtime. After Lucie’s performance at breakfast he didn’t want to be the cause of any more choking fits, or have her fleeing the room at the sight of him. Thankfully, it was empty, so he helped himself to a bowl of soup from the warmer and a couple of bread rolls from the large Tupperware box they used to keep them fresh. With everyone busy doing their own thing it was the easiest way to keep lunch as flexible as possible without giving the staff any more to do.

  Helping himself to a glass of water, Arthur propped his tablet up on its stand and opened his newspaper app. He liked to keep abreast of things, and lunch was normally quieter than breakfast so the perfect time to catch up on the day’s news. Today’s soup was chicken noodle, a particular favourite of his, and he was two-thirds down his second bowl when the door swung open and Lucie bounced in.

  There was no other way to describe it. The high ponytail she’d tied her gorgeous red hair in swung from side to side with the excited movement of her body. Her face lit up when she caught sight of him, and he swallowed a sigh of relief that she’d apparently decided to forget any awkwardness from earlier.

  ‘Oh, Arthur, there you are!’ Eschewing her normal seat further along the table, Lucie dropped into the chair at his left elbow. Propping her chin in her hands, she beamed up at him. The full force of that lovely smile did inexplicable things to his insides. She looked so full of joy, he wanted to reach out and touch her cheek as though some of it might rub off on him.

  ‘Here I am, what do you need?’ A kiss, perhaps? Though he’d sworn to himself he would keep things strictly professional, he was only a man after all, and she was so pretty and sparky in that moment he wanted to snatch her up and forget about anything other than the most basic demands of his nature.

  ‘I need a copy of your family tree; do you have one?’

  No snatching, then. Whatever had her lit up like a beacon, it wasn’t the current baronet, but one of his ancestors. Arthur swallowed his disappointment with a mouthful of water then settled back in his chair. A little distance between them would help banish the last of those snatching thoughts. ‘There’s one in my study. When you have a hereditary title like ours which requires presenting proof to an appointed council before you can assume it, it pays to keep very good family records.’

  Lucie frowned. ‘Doesn’t it just pass down from father to son, like other peerages?’

  ‘It’s not a peerage, it’s something different.’ Arthur waved a hand. ‘It’s all a bit complicated, but in order to use the title I had to present proof of my birth and lineage to get my name entered onto the Roll of Baronets. There’s an old Debrett’s guide somewhere in the library, that explains it all.’ He paused. ‘They’ve probably got a website, everyone and everything does these days.’

  ‘I’ll have to look it up, it sounds intriguing.’

  ‘Then I’ve oversold it to you,’ Arthur replied, with a grin. He’d been schooled on the why’s and wherefore’s of his family history and could list them all back to before the Civil War, but he wouldn’t wish the knowledge on anyone else. The weight of all that history, the intimate knowledge of those past baronets—both successes and failures—had hung around his neck like a millstone since his earliest days in the school room. He would have to find a better way to do it when he had children of his own, assuming there was anything left for them to inherit by the time he got around to continuing the family line.

  ‘Well, if I can get a look at this family tree, I can get on with my research.’ A long, low growl of sound echoed around the room and a red-faced Lucie clapped a hand over her stomach. ‘Oh, my goodness, how embarrassing. I can’t seem to sit at this table without humiliating myself one way or another.’

  She made to stand, but Arthur was too quick for her. With a firm hand on her shoulder, he pressed her back into her seat. ‘You dashed off this morning with your breakfast half-eaten, and you’ve clearly not had anything since. I’ll get you some soup.’

  ‘I…I’m fine, really.’

  ‘I’m going to ban that bloody word from your vocabulary! You can take five minutes.’ Arthur stomped over to the sideboard, ladled out a bowl of soup then returned to place it in front of her. ‘Eat.’ He went back to retrieve a couple of rolls for her, not giving her the chance to argue with him. A glass of water was next. When he saw the spoon lying untouched next to her bowl, he scowled. ‘As I seem to be the source of your discomfort, I’ll be in my study when you’re finished, but I don’t want to see you there until you eat something.’

  He was halfway to the door, when she stopped him. ‘Arthur, please, this is silly. You don’t need to go.’

  Needing her to eat was more important than his pride. She was clearly uncomfortable around him so better to make himself scarce. Glancing back at her, he shrugged. ‘I want you to feel at home here, but I don’t seem to be making a very good job of it.’

  ‘It’s not you. Please, come and sit back down.’

  Having resumed his seat, Arthur reached for a bit of roll he’d left on his side plate and began to butter it. Perhaps if he was eating, too, she’d feel less self-conscious. A bit of distracting conversation might help. ‘You were excited about something when you came in a few minutes ago, is it to do with my family tree?’

  Lucie nodded. ‘I found a little sketch dating back to the 1860s.’

  A sketch. Well that didn’t sound too promising as far as the family coffers went, but it had clearly got her engine revving. Mulling over the dates, he chewed the mouthful of bread, pleased to note from a corner of his eye that Lucie had picked up her spoon and was making headway with her soup. ‘1860s would’ve been Thomas, the ninth baronet. He inherited the title in 1857 after his father came a cropper whilst out riding. Thomas was quite young, had to give up his studies in London if I remember, rightly. He’s the one who got obsessed with all the Arthurian stuff.’

  He finished the last bite of his roll. ‘Aunt Morgana said he hung out with a bit of an arty set, now I come to think of it.’

  ‘Did she mention any names?’ Lucie was practically on the edge of her seat, that eager light shining once more in her eyes.

  ‘Not that I can recall, but then again, I wasn’t paying that much attention. You should ask her…’ He checked his watch. ‘Although not just now.’ Aunt Morgana retired to her room for a lie-down after lunch. At 75, she could do whatever the heck she liked that kept her happy, as far as Arthur and the others were concerned, so they made sure to never disturb her.

  ‘That’s okay, I can ask her over dinner. I’d still like to make a copy of the family tree, though. I’ve been trying to sort out the archive into a better order. I’ve already put things like estate ledgers, staffing records, personal correspondence and so on into their own sections, and I think it would make life easier if I could further break those groups down by each generation.’

  Given the way everything was jumbled together now, anything sounded like a vast improvement to Arthur. ‘I’m happy to go along with whatever system works for you.’ Folding his arms, he rested them on the edge of the dining table and leaned forward. ‘Are you going to keep me in suspense about this sketch?’

  She glanced down, and then back up again. ‘I’m trying not to let myself get too carried away until I can find some verification, but I think it might be of Eudora Baines.’

  Which left him none the wiser. ‘And she is…?’

  ‘Oh, sorry!’ Lucie laughed. ‘I forget not everyone is obsessed with the same things I am. She was, amongst other things, the muse of a famous Pre-Raphaelite artist.’

  Pre-Raphaelite? Now that was something he had heard of. ‘And you think this sketch is by someone famous?’ Don’t get ahead of yourself, Arthur…

  ‘I think it might be.’ Arthur
’s heart began to pound at her words. ‘But it’s unsigned and really not more than a scribble.’ And there went his hopes again, dashed against the rocks of reality. Of course there wasn’t some hidden masterpiece lurking in some forgotten corner of the castle, real life didn’t work that way.

  ‘So, your interest is more of an academic thing?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes.’ Lucie bit her lip, realisation dawning across her pretty features. ‘You didn’t think…? Oh, of course you did, how stupid of me!’ She reached back to tug on her ponytail, stroking it through her fingers. ‘I’m sorry, Arthur.’

  She sounded so upset, he couldn’t bear it. ‘Don’t be. I just got a bit carried away with myself, that’s all. If you’re excited about this sketch, then so am I.’ Well, he could be if he put a bit more effort into it. Not wanting to snuff out the bright fire of her enthusiasm, he gestured for her to continue.

  ‘It’s like finding a new piece to a puzzle. Another little clue into their lives.’ She raised one shoulder. ‘I’m not sure I can explain it, but I spent so much time researching into these people, they almost feel like friends.’ High colour splashed across her cheeks. ‘That sounds a bit pathetic, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Arthur assured her. ‘I think it’s great that you have something you feel so passionate about. Where did you find the sketch?’

  ‘I was working in the west drawing room today. After my tour with Mrs W, I decided the only way to tackle such a big project was to be logical about it. The temptation was to focus on the most impressive spaces, but then I worried about getting side-tracked and missing something. I found a set of plans in amongst the archive which look like they were drawn up early in the twentieth century. The rooms are all named, which is very helpful, so I decided to start at one end of the ground floor and work my way from west to east.’ She was babbling a bit, like she expected him to interrupt her, or criticise the working method she’d chosen, and he wondered who’d been responsible for putting such a dent in her confidence. Whoever it was needed a swift kick.

  ‘That sounds a lot more sensible than any suggestion I might have come up with. Can I have a look at the plans you’re using, just to make sure they are the most up to date?’ In not wanting to interfere, he could see he’d been a bit too hands-off with the project, leaving Lucie to flounder around and make the best of things. ‘I should’ve thought to provide you with a proper layout of the place—and the family tree.’

  She gave him an abashed smile. ‘I’ve quite enjoyed poking around, but it would be more efficient to check with you I was working off the right information.’

  At this rate they’d be apologising to each other for the next half an hour. Arthur stood and held out his hand. ‘Well, then let’s agree that we were both a little bit at fault and remedy that from now on.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ she agreed, shaking his proffered hand. As their fingers slipped apart, he noticed a callus on the side of her middle finger. Capturing her hand once more, he soothed the hard lump with the ball of his thumb. ‘I…I always hold my pen too hard,’ she murmured, staring down at their joined hands. ‘Always have.’

  Arthur released his hold and set his hand next to hers, comparing his smooth straight fingers to hers. ‘I never did enough work at school to notice if I held the pen too tight.’

  Shy green eyes peeked up at him through her thick russet fringe. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  He shook his head. ‘Believe it or not, it doesn’t change the truth of it. Tristan was the brains of the outfit. I’ve always been the brawn. I was too busy running around the rugby pitch. I did enough to get by, but I didn’t really see the point as my future was mapped out from the day we were born.’ A bitter laugh escaped his throat. ‘A stupid quirk of fate and some archaic bollocks meant running this place was my only career option, so I didn’t much see the point in studying a bunch of stuff I’d never get to use.’

  ‘But you went to university? I’m sure I heard Tristan mention a reunion invitation the other night.’

  ‘Rugby scholarship. I let Tristan have his pick of courses and tagged along.’

  ‘And Iggy?’

  Arthur smiled, shaking off some of his unexpected melancholy. It wasn’t like him to be all moody and introspective. Life was as it was and there was no use bemoaning a fate many people would consider blessed. ‘She couldn’t wait to see the back of us! Went to Cirencester, to the agricultural college, which is what I should’ve done if I’d had any sense.’

  ‘I can see it would’ve had its benefits running an estate as large as this. What did you study instead?’

  ‘Business studies, a couple of elective units on book-keeping. It was all right, actually, which was just as well as I blew out my knee during the first winter there and couldn’t play rugby after that.’ When he caught her looking down at his legs, he tugged up the left leg of his cords to show her the white scar stretching from just above his knee to a couple of inches below it. ‘It’s fine now, as long as I don’t do anything stupid. And it comes in handy for predicting the bad weather.’ He released his trouser leg and shook it back into place.

  ‘Makes my callus a bit pathetic by comparison.’ Lucie rubbed her thumb over the bump, echoing his action from a few moments before. Apart from the little ridge, the rest of her skin had been incredibly soft and smooth to the touch.

  Surprised at how much he wanted to take her hand again, he tucked his hands behind his back. ‘That’s it? No other flaws?’

  Her musical laughter filled the air. ‘Oh, plenty of those!’ She waved a hand towards her face as though pointing some of them out.

  ‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’ Arthur tilted his head from one side to the other before shaking it. ‘Nope, can’t see anything wrong with you.’

  She tugged a lock of her fringe. ‘Apart from this carroty mess, and enough freckles for a dozen people, you mean?’

  Stepping close, he grasped her ponytail gently then let the waterfall of silken strands run through his fingers. ‘I think it’s very pretty.’ It came out gruff; a roughened caress as the intimacy of his action struck. He should let her go, before he did something unforgivable like wrap it around his fist and tug her close for a kiss…

  ‘We should get back to work.’ She turned away, pulling her hair free from his lax grasp, the movement almost natural enough for him to miss the sudden warmth glowing in her cheeks. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one thinking inappropriate thoughts.

  She was right; damn it, he knew she was right, but for an instant he wanted to ignore all the very sensible reasons why taking her into his arms would be a terrible idea and just go with it. They were both young, and from what he’d worked out so far, both free and single. Would it be so bad to give in to this attraction and see where it took them?

  Before he’d finished the thought, he knew the truth of it. It would be bad; more than bad, quite possibly ruinous. Because after she’d slapped his face for behaving inappropriately and stormed out, what would he do then? Maybe, just maybe, she was onto something with this Pre-Raphaelite connection. If he let his stupid libido get in the way of saving the family fortunes, wouldn’t he be just as bad as those ancestors of his who’d got them in this mess in the first place?

  He’d thought himself free? What a bloody joke that was. With a quick wipe of his hand against his leg to try and dispel the lingering feel of her silky hair, he gestured towards the door. ‘Right, let’s go and find that family tree, I promised you, and then perhaps you can show me this sketch of yours?’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  For the rest of the afternoon, Arthur was the absolute soul of propriety. Having made a copy of the family tree on his printer-cum-scanner, he followed Lucie to the library mezzanine and showed a great deal of interest in the beginnings of the new filing system she’d set up. At no point did he give any hint of mention of that super-charged moment in the dining room when he’d stroked her hair and for one blissful, foolish moment she’d thought he might want to kiss h
er. He made sure to not lean in too close as they sat side-by-side to review the items she’d flagged as warranting further study once the initial full survey had been completed, and all in all acted exactly as he had during all of their other encounters—scrupulously polite.

  When their knuckles made accidental contact as she handed him the frame holding the sketch of Eudora, it was Lucie who leapt back as though burnt whilst Arthur gave no sign of noticing either the brief contact or her stupid over-reaction to it. By the time the daylight was fading outside, she was beginning to wonder if she’d imagined the whole thing.

  I think it’s very pretty. A shiver rippled down her spine. No. She hadn’t imagined that, nor the way he’d stared down at her as though he wanted to devour her.

  ‘Here.’

  Lucie blinked at the cardigan Arthur had unhooked from the back of her chair. ‘What’s that for?’

  Arthur draped the garment over the arm of her seat. ‘My mistake. I thought you were getting chilly.’

  Was he teasing her? She stared at him, trying and failing to read anything other than a mild concern in his warm hazel eyes. ‘I…umm, it was nothing,’ she stuttered, for what else was she going to say? ‘I was thinking about that moment when you almost kissed me?’ Hell would freeze over before she told him the truth. And melt again before she would utter the question burning her tongue. ‘Why didn’t you?’ If it was because she’d been stupid enough to open her mouth and say they should get back to work, she’d kick herself from here to next Tuesday. It had been a reflex action, a fleeting attempt by her conscience to remind herself of her position at the castle, rather than any kind of serious protestation.

  She pinched the underside of her arm to banish the foolish notion. If he’d wanted to kiss her, he would’ve kissed her. Arthur didn’t strike her as the kind of man who was backward about coming forward. He was always in motion. Even when he’d given her his full attention as she’d shown him the photos on her tablet, he’d been moving. Tapping a pen he’d picked up against his thigh one minute, running a hand through his thick hair the next. He was never still. It made sense that he’d been a sportsman at school, he had that kind of solid physique and confidence in his movements she remembered for her own classmates.