Sunshine Over Bluebell Castle

by Sarah Bennett

  ‘I’ve already spoken to your assistant; she was the one who gave me your number. Told me to give you a call straightaway, but perhaps I misunderstood her. I’ve sent through a few sample photographs as she suggested, but I’m under a bit of a time crunch so if you’re too busy I’d rather you came out and said it straight.’

  She had the clipped accents of a member of the upper class, and her forthright manner made him feel a bit like a stroppy teenager being scolded by a teacher. Patience already on a knife’s edge, he was on the verge of telling her what she could do with her time crunch when a thought occurred to him. Why had Anna passed his private number on instead of dealing with it the way she did all the other enquiries that came into the business? Intrigued, he swallowed his snap of temper and asked, ‘What’s the job?’

  A soft exhalation filled his ear. A sigh of … relief? Perhaps Ms Iggy Ludworth wasn’t quite as sure of herself as she sounded. And what the hell kind of name was Iggy, anyway? ‘My brother owns an estate in Derbyshire and we’re planning to open up to the public. I need your assistance to restore the formal gardens here at Ludworth Castle in time for the August bank holiday.’

  Castle? Will gave a mental whistle. Upper class, indeed, he thought, picturing towering battlements looming over rolling acres of green. It’d be a hell of a challenge, too, something on a scale he’d never tackled before. Trying to contain the little buzz of excitement, he made a mental count of the months in his head. It was already the beginning of May … He’d have to shuffle a few projects around, leave Nick and Anna to run things here and source a local work crew of his own. ‘Sixteen months sounds doable, what’s the budget?’

  A throaty laugh echoed over the phone, so at odds with her frosty speaking voice. Deep, rich and wildly filthy, it shot straight to his groin. ‘You’ve misunderstood me, Mr Talbot, I was referring to this bank holiday, not next year.’

  The jolt of insta-lust withered in astonishment, and Will couldn’t help his own shout of laughter. ‘Is this a wind-up? You’re taking the piss if you think I can pull something like that off in four months. I’m good, Ms Ludworth, but I’m not that bloody good. What you’re suggesting isn’t just ridiculous, it’s fucking impossible! The planning alone would take more time than you have left.’

  There was no humour in her next words. ‘Oh, it can be done, Mr Talbot, and it will be done. I thought you might be up to the challenge, but apparently not. I thought you were more than your sordid reputation, but clearly I was wrong if you think it appropriate to swear at a potential client. I’m sorry I’ve wasted my time believing otherwise.’

  The phone went dead, leaving Will gawping. Wasted her time? ‘Has the whole world gone bloody crazy?’ he muttered to himself.

  A soft sniffle came from behind him. Forgetting snooty Ms Ludworth and her ludicrous expectations, Will spun on his heel. To his horror, tears were pouring down Phillipa’s face, streaking her make-up and turning her already sheer nightdress even more see-through. Spotting a box of tissues on a dressing table across the room, he broke his cardinal rule of remaining on his side of the threshold to grab them. Not wanting to get too close to her, he proffered the box awkwardly from arm’s length, taking a precautionary step backwards as soon as she took it.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, God, you must think me such a stupid fool.’ Phillipa began to sob in earnest, like her heart was breaking into pieces.

  Embarrassment and guilt made him squirm. Instinct made him want to comfort her, but how could he when she was dressed like that? Wishing like hell he’d made a run for it when he’d the chance, he glanced towards the exit. His eyes alighted on a scrap of material poking around from behind the door. Reaching out he snagged the white towelling dressing gown with one hand. It was shorter than he would’ve preferred it to be, but at least it would cover everything that needed to be covered.

  Moving gingerly towards the bed, he draped the robe around her shoulders and did his best to pull it around her without touching anything his hands had no business being anywhere near. Snatching at the material, Phillipa gripped it closed beneath her throat. The look she gave him, so full of shame and misery cut him off at the knees and he found himself sinking down beside her. ‘It’s all right. Please don’t cry.’ He patted her shoulder.

  Before he could withdraw his hand, she turned and buried her face in his chest, leaving him no choice but to give her an awkward one-armed hug. ‘You’re a very attractive woman, Mrs Cornwall. It’s just … you’re married … and what with Tony being such a decent guy and everything, it just isn’t right, you know?’

  A bitter laugh broke through her tears. ‘Oh, yes, Tony’s such a decent guy. Isn’t it marvellous the way he takes beautiful young actresses under his wing and offers them the benefit of his experience?’

  Shocked to the core by what she was suggesting, Will pulled back to stare down at her. ‘He’s cheated on you?’

  Shuddering, Phillipa swallowed back more tears and straightened up. ‘Cheating,’ she corrected. ‘Present tense. He left yesterday with his latest paramour. Rehearsing for their new film, apparently.’ She didn’t need to make the gesture for him to hear the quotation marks around the word ‘rehearsing’.

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought you guys were rock solid.’ Everything he’d ever seen or read about them implied a strong and happy relationship. Then again, everything she’d probably read about Will had made Phillipa think he’d be up for it. If the stuff in the papers about him was a combination of managed spin and made-up rubbish, wouldn’t it be even more so for a couple infinitely more famous? ‘So, this-’ he gestured between the two of them ‘-was supposed to be a way to get your own back at him?’

  She shrugged. ‘What’s good for the gander is good for the goose, and all that.’ Using the crumpled tissue in her hand, she wiped at the streaks of mascara on her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Will, you must think I’m ridiculous.’

  ‘No!’ Whatever anger he’d felt towards her for putting him in such a compromising position was redirected towards her cheating rat of a husband. Not all marriages were good, Christ knew his own parent’s relationship had been a disaster, but at least they’d had the sense to call it a day. Taking her hand, he pressed a quick kiss to the back of it. ‘I’m really sorry that you’re hurting, Phillipa, but sleeping with me isn’t the answer to your problems-ask any of my ex-girlfriends.’

  She managed a watery chuckle, and Will felt his panic subside at last. Reaching out he brushed free a tendril of hair that had stuck to her cheek. Beneath the streaked make-up and the fine lines age had settled into her skin were hints of the beautiful woman she’d been in her heyday. Tony Cornwall was either mad, stupid or both. ‘Shall we both take a deep breath and pretend the past half an hour never happened?’

  Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, she nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  And because he was British, there was only one thing left to say. ‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’

  Half an hour later, looking much better after the tea, a sheepish-looking Phillipa escorted him to the front door. She’d washed her face and tied the dressing gown tight around her middle leaving her looking much smaller and more fragile than the woman who’d greeted him earlier. Pausing in the open doorway, Will tucked his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and gave her a smile. ‘If you still want us to go ahead with the terrace, give Anna a call once you’ve decided on the alterations I’ve suggested. She’ll make arrangements with you for when the installation team can start.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She hesitated for a moment then stretched up on tiptoe to pop a quick kiss on his cheek. ‘You’re a very good man, Will Talbot.’

  He winked. ‘That’s our secret. Take care of yourself, Phillipa.’

  *

  As he made his way back towards his car parked several streets away thanks to some very stringent local parking restrictions, Will couldn’t help but feel thoroughly depressed. The Cornwalls had been married for longer than he’d been alive. Had they been unhapp
y with each other all that time? He shook his head at the idea of it. What a bloody waste.

  Thankful to be free of such emotional entanglements, although even his pretend relationship with Melody was growing tiresome, he dug his phone out and browsed for messages. The first one was from Anna to say she’d cleared his calendar for the rest of the day in case things at the Cornwalls got complicated. He couldn’t help but laugh. Complicated didn’t even come close. Beneath that were a couple of sales offers from suppliers they used which he flicked without reading into a sub-folder for future reference.

  The next message was from Iggy Ludworth and he was about to drop it into his trash folder when he spotted the thumbnail images attached. Curious, he clicked on the first one and stopped dead in his tracks, transfixed by the image of the top half of a statue poking out from a massive thicket of brambles. He moved onto the next photograph showing the remains of a walled garden, the red bricks of the short walls dividing the weed-strewn beds crumbling and broken. The third image was a distance shot over a collection of overgrown box hedges; the fourth a carpet of bluebells nodding beneath the boughs of an ancient oak. His heart pounded, excitement building inside him as he flicked his thumb to the next picture, then the next. The final few were too small to properly make out any detail, but they looked to be original design sketches, the paper on which they were drawn yellowed with age. As he rolled back up through the images the tips of his fingers began to itch. He could almost feel the rich, dark soil beneath them.

  A belch of hot air hit him, followed by the acrid stench of diesel fumes from a delivery van stuck in the endless queue of traffic snaking along the street beside him. Wrinkling his nose, Will moved as far to the inside of the pavement as he could then continued towards his truck. When was the last time he’d breathed a lungful of air that didn’t carry the taint of heavy traffic? Or looked up at a night’s sky not stained orange from light pollution, for that matter?

  He gave his phone one last wishful glance before unlocking his door and tossing it on the passenger seat along with his backpack. What was he doing daydreaming about fresh air and starry skies when he had a successful business right here that needed all his attention? Shaking his head, he slid into his seat. Running off to Derbyshire was a mad idea. As mad as the idea that it was possible to sort out the ruined gardens of Ludworth Castle in three short months.

  And Will had sworn off doing mad things, hadn’t he?

  Chapter 4

  Fuming after her brief, humiliating call with Will Talbot, Iggy marched from Arthur’s office, determination in every stride. She would show that arrogant pig of man exactly what she was capable of. Couldn’t be done? Ha! She’d bloody well show him otherwise. Her righteous march ended swiftly thanks to the sight of an unwelcome present deposited on the stone floor of the great hall by one of the dogs.

  Looking from the small, brown pile in front of her to the unusually quiet array of pups and hounds sprawled before the fireplace, Iggy did her best not to laugh at the collection of innocent expressions staring back at her. ‘This better be a one-off,’ she admonished, as though they could understand what she was saying. ‘Because I haven’t got time for you lot to get sick.’ The problem with having so many dogs was it was almost impossible to avoid them all getting ill if one of them caught a bug.

  Keeping them under her watchful gaze in the hopes the guilty dog would give themselves away, she walked to the large wooden box next to the fireplace where they kept old newspapers and bits and pieces of dried kindling to help in lighting the fire. When she spotted the paper on the top of the pile, she couldn’t help a self-satisfied grin from tweaking her mouth. It was the tabloid paper she’d dropped in there earlier-the one with Will Talbot scowling out from the front page which had put the stupid idea to call him in her head in the first place.

  ‘Might as well be useful for something.’ Snatching up the cover and the next few pages behind it, she returned to the offending spot in the middle of the hall and pressed Will’s face into the still-soft poo as she scooped it up. She deposited the ball of paper in the empty bin in the small washroom near the door before washing her hands thoroughly. Collecting the bin when she’d finished, she headed back across the hall towards the servant’s area to dispose of the parcel and to give Mrs W a head’s up that the floor would need disinfecting.

  *

  Petty satisfaction proved a highly motivating tool, and Iggy pictured various soft parts of Will Talbot’s anatomy as she hacked and slashed at the brambles crawling over the statue of Venus which stood in the basin of a long dead fountain opposite the entrance to the maze. By the time Tristan wandered out with a flask of tea and a couple of Betsy’s homemade rock cakes tucked in his pocket, she was scratched to bits, but the worst of her anger had been exorcised and she’d uncovered most of the moss-stained marble figure.

  ‘Blimey, you’ve made some progress this morning,’ he observed, gaze sweeping over the piles of shorn brambles she’d raked off to one side.

  ‘Not enough.’ Pausing to shove her sweat-matted fringe back, Iggy did a couple of rotations and stretches to ease the ache in her back. Maybe Will had a point. It didn’t matter how much effort she put in, there was no way things could be ready in time for the end of August. But she had to try. Blessed with what she called perseverance-and Arthur called bloody-minded pig-headedness-Iggy was never one to give up on a situation, often to her own detriment. Even when everyone else around her could read the writing on the wall, her instinct was to plough on, to stick to the plotted course and tough it out to the end.

  Shaking off the wave of self-doubt, she squatted down beside her brother and accepted the plastic mug of tea he held out. The long-term future of her family was still at stake, and she was determined to do whatever she could to secure it. The estate farms were finally running well enough for her to be able to turn her attention to other projects. It had taken the best part of nine months of hard work since their father had passed on for her to convince their tenants she was up to the task of managing the estate, but she’d succeeded.

  They were tough men and women-the land and necessity had bred them that way-and she didn’t resent them for expecting her to prove her worth. Through the deprivations of a particularly harsh winter she’d worked side-by-side with them, rescuing stranded sheep high in the dales beyond the borders of the estate, fixing broken tractors and thawing frozen pipes.

  Selling one painting, no matter how much it was worth, wasn’t going to keep the castle running for the rest of her lifetime; it wasn’t going to keep those farmers protected by a landlord who understood and respected their connection to the lands. Like Arthur and Tristan both, she wanted to ensure future generations didn’t face the same heartache and insecurity they were currently coping with. Putting Bluebell Castle on the tourist map was an essential part of that, and they needed to open with a bang.

  Tristan snagged the mug from her to wash down a mouthful of cake. ‘Arthur told me about your plan to get Will Talbot involved with the garden renovations. I think it’s a stroke of genius. His name’s everywhere at the moment. If you could persuade him, or that gorgeous girlfriend of his to open the fete as well, it’d really draw the punters in.’

  Stealing back the mug, Iggy drained the contents then held it out to him for a refill. ‘It might’ve been a genius idea if he hadn’t accused me of taking the piss.’

  ‘Oh, Iggy, that’s pants.’ Tristan slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in for a quick hug. ‘Wait? Did he actually say that?’

  She nodded. ‘That and a lot of other rude things. Ridiculous, effing impossible; can’t be done; planning would take longer than I’ve got left to finish it.’ She shrugged. ‘There might have been more, but I hung up on him. Rude bastard.’

  Her brother snorted. ‘Bet he loved that.’

  She brushed the crumbs from her rock cake off her jeans-a futile exercise given the dirt streaking them-and rose. ‘What Will Talbot may or may not love is nothing to do with me.’ When t
heir eyes met, she read nothing but encouragement in her brother’s gaze. Other people might have scolded her for being hot-headed and overreacting, but not Tris. He’d walk through fire for her, both he and Arthur would, and she’d do the same for them. ‘Do you have time to look at the drawings with me this evening? I’m struggling a bit over what to do for the best.’

  ‘Can’t see the wood for the trees?’

  She groaned at his terrible pun. ‘Something like that.’

  Having screwed the mug back onto the top of the flask, Tristan stood up beside her. ‘’Course I’ve got time. Bring them into the family room after dinner, and I’ll take a look.’ He tugged the end of a loose strand of hair that had escaped from her plait. ‘Don’t fret, Iggle-Piggle, we’ll get it sorted out.’

  ‘I hate it when you call me that,’ she grumbled.

  ‘I know, why else do you think I do it?’ Flashing her an unrepentant grin, Tristan left her to it.

  Iggy entered the family room with the various drawings Lucie had managed to dig up from the family archives secured in a roll under her arm. As usual, several of the dogs had commandeered the floor in front of the fireplace, even though it was too warm for the hearth to be lit. With a few gentle toe nudges, she managed to stir them, eliciting a chorus of grumbles and whines as they begrudgingly yielded the space to her.

  She’d barely unrolled the first drawing before Arthur’s greyhound, Nimrod, tried to walk over it. ‘No!’ Iggy grabbed the dog and pulled him into her lap before his claws could damage the delicate paper. With a hug to show him he wasn’t in trouble, she shooed the dog away and rolled the drawing back up. ‘This isn’t going to work, is it?’ she said to the milling dogs as she stood.

  ‘Talking to yourself again?’ It was Arthur, with Lucie on his heels.