Sunshine Over Bluebell Castle

by Sarah Bennett

  ‘Let me work out first what contribution I think I can make to things, and then we can talk about it.’ He shrugged, like money was no big deal.

  Maybe it wasn’t to him, but regardless of the good fortune Lucie’s discovery had brought them, it still meant a hell of a lot to Iggy. Though she’d sworn to herself earlier she would take his presence as a gift, she couldn’t shrug off the tiny kernel of suspicion that somehow this was all some enormous joke, and the punchline would be at her expense. ‘What made you change your mind?’

  Setting down his knife and fork, Will held up his hands to her, palms towards him. ‘Look at these.’

  She looked. They were large hands. Big square slabs of flesh with broad fingers and neat, squared-off nails. No distinguishing marks beyond a few scattered freckles, no doubt from the hours they’d been exposed to the sun. ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Now look at your hands.’

  Surprised, she raised them in front of her face. Though she’d soaked them last night in the bath, and scrubbed them again in the shower this morning, a couple of her nails still had some ingrained dirt beneath them. Flustered over her behaviour the previous night, she realised she’d forgotten to apply her sunscreen-infused hand cream leaving the skin looking wrinkled and tight. ‘Not as pretty as yours,’ she mused.

  ‘Exactly. I’m a gardener, Igraine, or at least I’m supposed to be.’ His use of her full name surprised her. Almost as much as it surprised her how much she liked hearing him say it. She’d always thought it too girly, but on his lips it sounded like a woman’s name; one she might finally be ready to grow into.

  Not quite ready to think about that, she tried to concentrate on what he was saying. ‘The medal from Chelsea says plenty of people think you’re a gardener.’

  He shook his head, ignoring her attempt at levity. ‘A gardener who can’t remember the last time he got his hands dirty.’ His derisive snort told her what he thought of that. ‘Replanting the Chelsea garden was probably the last time I wielded a trowel.’

  Iggy blinked. Surely that couldn’t be right. His win at Chelsea had been two years ago. ‘I thought you were run off your feet.’

  ‘I am, but that’s with designing. I have a team who do all the real work. I try to get more involved, but it’s a nightmare because the clients spend so much time coming up with excuses to chat that we don’t get anything done. If I send Nick, my planting supervisor, in to run the job, it’s done in half the time.’

  She’d never considered the flip side of his fame before. Though she wanted to work with him because he was one of the best young talents in the field, there was no getting around the fact that some people probably hired him just so they could tell their friends they’d had their garden designed by Will Talbot. They wanted the celebrity, not the man whose innovative mix of traditional with shocking splashes of urban realism had caught her eye and imagination. ‘Surely your team are going to need you back in London?’

  ‘There’ll be things I have to go back for, I’m sure.’ He lounged back in his chair, the lazy sprawl drawing her attention to just how big a man he was. Big and capable, and just a little bit dangerous. Just as well he wasn’t her type. Or rather, just as well she refused to be drawn to what had always been her type anymore.

  Deciding she had time for one more quick cup of tea while the others finished eating, Iggy carried her cup to the sideboard. The large water boiler had gone into stand-by mode so she flipped through the newspapers whilst waiting for it to get back up to temperature. Their father had liked to get all the daily newspapers, same as their grandfather had. She supposed it dated to a time when the house was busier, when the family did more entertaining and were more likely to have visitors staying. It also put money in the pocket of the local shop in the village so it’d never felt right to Arthur to reduce or cancel the order-even though she knew he read the paper on his phone app more often than not.

  As usual, the headlines grew more dramatic and lurid towards the lower end of the tabloid market. It fascinated her that whilst most of the front pages often carried a variation on the same theme, there’d always be something different on one of the red-tops. The boiler clicked off, and she was just tidying the papers back into a neat pile when she spotted what looked like a cartoon drawing.

  Tugging the paper from the bottom of the stack, it took a moment for her mind to register what she was seeing. WHERE’S WILLY? Screamed the banner headline over a photo of Will’s face wearing a photoshopped cartoon red and white stripped bobble hat and matching jumper like the Where’s Wally character from the children’s books. Feeling suddenly sick and stupid, Iggy began reading the story beneath:

  Will Talbot, love-rat gardener to the stars, has left another broken heart in his wake. Bootcamp Babes beauty, Melody Atkins, was distraught when Talbot left her to strut the red carpet alone last night at the new album launch for pop sensation, Clay Givens. ‘I thought we had something special, that being with me had finally tamed his wild ways, but he’s not the man I thought he was,’ she confided to our reporter, barely holding back the tears. ‘I just hope he’s all right, and can finally get the help that he needs.’

  When approached, Mr Talbot’s office refused to comment, and his agent hasn’t returned our calls. There was also no answer at his exclusive Battersea apartment. So, where’s Willy? If you’ve seen him, you can call our tip line on 0800 444 5597. Turn to Page 5 for our exclusive tell-all interview with Melody Atkins.

  Suddenly, it all made perfect sense.

  Chapter 7

  Will had been prepared to weather a storm that morning, but thankfully Igraine’s mood seemed a lot more receptive to his sudden arrival than it had been the night before. He’d taken what Tristan had said seriously and spent a couple of hours really thinking about what his plans were, and whether he could make a difference to what the family was trying to achieve. When he’d eventually slipped between the soft cotton sheets on that monster bed he’d been expecting a night of luxury; alas, though it looked impressive, the mattress had left a hell of a lot to be desired. No matter what position he tried, he’d ended up rolling down into the soggy centre of the bed as soon as he relaxed. His back might never forgive him.

  At least the water in the shower had been hot and plentiful, and after a good few minutes he’d started to feel like himself again. Then he’d drawn back his curtains and any lingering discomfort had been instantly forgotten as the castle revealed its true beauty to him. He’d assumed his room had been named for the décor, but as he’d taken in the view beyond the glass, he’d wondered anew. From the deep, almost black leaves of the ivy climbing over the pale stone walls and roof of the outbuildings, to the distinctive shades of oak, beech and elm trees and the dark and pale stripes of the neatly mowed lawn, there were more shades of green than he could put name to.

  His attempts to open the window had been thwarted-the ancient-looking metal opener refusing to budge more than half an inch. By pressing his face against the glass, he’d caught the glimpse of a structure beneath his window that looked like it might be some kind of glass house or conservatory. And then the sun had broken through the light clouds, illuminating the pale stonework and enhancing the contrast between the manmade structures and nature’s efforts to reclaim the space they occupied. He’d dug immediately for his sketchbook, and might have sat there all day trying to capture the play of the light.

  As he set his knife and fork together on his empty plate with the satisfied sigh of a well-fed man, he could only be thankful that Tristan had persuaded him to abandon his sketching for breakfast. ‘That was fantastic, who do I need to thank for the food?’

  Arthur finished off his last bite of toast then smiled. ‘We source as much as possible from the local area and have an account with the local butcher. You can really taste the difference, can’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Will agreed. ‘Though I’ll have to resist the temptation of a cooked breakfast every day, I must say I could get used to a spread like this.
It’s a far cry from the black coffee and toast I usually have at home.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt you’ll have time to get used to breakfast here with us, Mr Talbot.’ Igraine’s brittle tone drew his attention across the room. She still had her back to them, her attention seemingly fixed on the newspapers spread out in front of her. There was a tension in her spine, the rigidity of her posture a far cry from the laughing, relaxed woman who’d been sitting opposite him not five minutes earlier. And what was with this Mr Talbot business?

  Mentally retracing his conversational steps, he tried to work out what he might have said to sour her mood, but came up blank. Perhaps now they were going to be heading outside to survey the gardens, she was just feeling a bit tense about things. Hoping to reassure her, he aimed for a relaxed air. ‘I’m sure you’re right. We’ll be so busy working, the weeks will fly by.’

  Igraine turned to face him at that point, her face like thunder. ‘You can stop the pretence. It’s clear the only reason you’ve turned up here is to try and escape the press fallout of your breakup with your girlfriend. What did you do to the poor woman, anyway?’

  What the bloody hell was she on about? ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, what did I do to who?’

  At the same time as he was speaking, Arthur shoved his chair back from the table. ‘Enough, Iggy! I will not have you speak to a guest of ours like this. You were the one who wanted Will to help with the gardens, and yet you’ve done everything possible to make him feel unwelcome since the moment of his arrival. What’s got into you?’

  Eyes flashing, she rounded on her brother. ‘Ask him why he’s here. Go on, ask him!’

  A dull flush was rising on Arthur’s cheeks. ‘I don’t need to ask him, he’s here to help us. To help you, although the way you’re carrying on, we’ll be lucky if he gives us the time of day!’

  Still clueless as to why Igraine was so pissed off, and not liking the fact he was somehow the cause of her and Arthur falling out, Will waved his arms. ‘Umm, hey, guys. He’s right here.’

  Jabbing his hands onto his hips, Arthur huffed out a breath. ‘I’m so sorry, Will. What on earth must you think of us?’

  He waved the apology off. ‘It’s cool, really. I just don’t have a clue what’s going on.’

  Reaching behind her, Igraine snatched one of the papers from the sideboard and tossed it onto the table in front of him. ‘Why don’t you read all about it?’ Turning on her heel, she marched out of the room.

  With a feeling of dread twisting his stomach into knots, Will drew the newspaper towards him. A quick scan over the front page was enough to confirm his worst fears. ‘Shit.’ He jumped up, almost knocking his chair over in his haste to put some distance between himself and the unpleasant reminder of the worst aspect of his current life. Anger surged in his veins. Melody had done a serious number on him, that was for sure.

  ‘Is this you?’ Tristan was leaning across from his seat to look at the front page.

  ‘Yes, but the story’s a load of bollocks. I haven’t done anything to Melody, it was a purely business relationship.’

  ‘Well, she certainly appears distraught over something, and you can’t deny the two of you have been splashed across the papers for weeks now,’ Tristan mused as he flipped over to the inside page to reveal a full-length picture of Melody clad in three tiny triangles of material masquerading as a bikini. ‘I wonder if the poor girl needs a shoulder to cry on?’

  Though he knew Tristan was trying to make light of things to ease the tension, he could really do without it right now. As Will scanned the innuendo-laden text accompanying the photo, his gut sank. As usual, the reporter had been clever enough not to outright accuse him of anything libellous, whilst merrily trashing his reputation in the process. If you read between the lines, the article managed to infer he was a drunken yob with a propensity for violence. They’d even reproduced that awful photo of him snarling at the bottom of the article. Talk about a bloody hatchet job. Furious at Melody for dropping him in it, and with himself for not making sure she was on side before he left, he shoved the stupid article away. ‘Like 99 per cent of the trash they publish about me, there’s barely a grain of truth to it.’

  He started around the table, determined to catch Igraine up and explain, but Arthur shifted to intercept him. ‘Why are you here, Will?’

  ‘I’m starting to wonder that myself, to be honest.’ As soon as he’d spoken, Will held his hands up in apology. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Melody and I were never a couple, we just decided to play it that way because it suited us both at the time.’ Even as he was saying it, it sounded ridiculous and he knew it would do nothing to make them likely to trust him.

  ‘I promise you the only reason I came here was because I was captivated by the images your sister sent me, and I wanted to see if I could play a part in restoring your gardens.’ Frustrated that once again he’d been judged on crap written about him, Will yanked out a chair and slumped down in it. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come.’

  Arthur clapped a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘Or maybe coming here was exactly what you needed to do.’

  Feeling suddenly tired and a lot older than his 29 years, Will glanced up at him. ‘All I want to do is feel the sun on my back, the earth between my fingers and the ache in my muscles at the end of the day that tells me I’ve spent it doing some good, honest work.’ He flicked a resentful glare towards the newspaper. ‘I didn’t ask for any of this.’

  ‘Then spending a few weeks here out of the limelight sounds like it’ll benefit us just as much as you.’

  Still not sure whether he should cut his losses and take the chaos that always seemed to be dogging his heels these days with him, Will looked over towards Tristan. ‘What do you think?’

  Shutting the paper with the snap of his wrist, Tristan rested his elbows on the table and appeared to give the matter some thought. ‘I think we might be able to turn this to our advantage.’

  Arthur frowned. ‘How so?’

  ‘If we can keep Will’s presence here a secret, we can wait to unveil his participation in the restoration works. It’d be a great publicity coup-the tabloids can waste their column inches on speculation, and we can make a big announcement a week or two before the grand opening about what Will’s really been up to.’ He turned to Will. ‘Assuming you don’t mind us using your name in that way?’

  Feeling uneasy, Will shook his head. ‘I’d rather avoid any kind of publicity at the moment. I don’t have any problem with you using my name to promote your event, but I want it to be focused completely on the work I do in the gardens and not my personal life.’

  Tristan gave him a speculative glance, before finally nodding. ‘Okay, I can see why you want to distance yourself from this kind of bad press. We’ll talk about it nearer the time and agree a statement.’

  Shaking his hand, Arthur gave him a wry grin. ‘Looks like you’re staying, then. Assuming you can convince Iggy, that is.’

  *

  It took Will the best part of an hour and half to track Igraine down in a hidden corner of the formal gardens. The way she was hacking at the brambles half-choking the statue he’d seen in one of the photos she’d sent him, it was clear that none of her earlier anger at him had faded. He moved into her eyeline and raised his hands in the traditional surrender gesture, hoping for at least a smile. All he got for his efforts was a disdainful curl of her lip before she attacked the brambles with a renewed vigour that was enough to make a grown man wince. Opting for a waiting game, Will began exploring that section of the garden, making sure to skirt wide around the fountain basin which held the statue.

  At first glance, it looked to be a dead end-the fountain enclosed on three sides by thick, overgrown box hedges. Though it would take a bit of elbow grease to extract the weeds interwoven with the box, once the brambles had been cleared and the fountain cleaned and restored to working order, it would be a nice quiet spot for visitors to take a breather and listen to the soothing trickle of the fountain. In
his mind’s eye, he could picture a couple of benches, perhaps with integrated pergolas which would provide a respite from the sun on a warm day. He paced out the area, calculating angles and distances in his head, and it was only as he approached the hedge at the back of the rectangular space, he realised a narrow path had once run through it. ‘What’s through here?’ he asked as he bent to try and peer through the overgrowth.

  ‘I’m not sure it leads anywhere.’ When Will glanced back at her over his shoulder, she’d stopped chopping and was frowning in his direction. ‘The back wall of the apothecary’s garden is somewhere on the other side, so perhaps it’s just a gap where part of the hedge died back and then the weeds and stuff took over.’

  Not convinced, Will drew a pair of thick leather gardening gloves from his back pocket then hunkered down for a closer look. Yanking free several handfuls of grass gone to seed where the edges of the lawn had been allowed to run riot, he cleared enough space to see a clear break in the two section of the hedge at the base. The box had grown together to fill the gap, but with a bit of effort …

  Lying on his belly, Will wriggled forward, ignoring the surrounding plants that tried to snag his clothing as though bent on keeping him out. One more shove. His shoulders suddenly broke through and he craned his neck up.

  ‘What are you doing?’ A none-too-gentle kick to the side of his work boot jolted through him. ‘You’ll wreck the hedge!’

  Ignoring Igraine’s complaint he studied the small wooden door set into a red-brick wall. ‘There’s a door here.’

  ‘What? Where?’ Any animosity she’d been harbouring for him was seemingly forgotten as she tried to wiggle in beside him. ‘Get out a minute and let me see.’

  Rather than reversing out, he pushed through to the other side of the hedge, scraping a couple of layers of skin off the outside of his arm in the process. He was still wincing down at the graze, when Igraine popped up beside him, half her mass of curls hanging over one shoulder, the rest still tied back in a now lop-sided ponytail. She appeared not to notice, her eyes fixed on the weathered boards of the door. Reaching out, she touched the brick wall beside it, her fingers stroking over a patch of the yellowed lichen spreading over much of the red brick. ‘This is definitely the apothecary’s garden, but I’m sure there’s only one way into it.’