Sunshine Over Bluebell Castle

by Sarah Bennett

  ‘I was only a baby during the war, but Agravaine-my elder brother-used to tell me stories of the soldiers who billeted here. Father stayed here to maintain the estate, but his twin brothers both enlisted in the Sherwood Foresters and saw action. When their unit was evacuated through Dunkirk, Father offered the regiment the estate as somewhere they could use for rest and recuperation breaks. There are some photographs in the archives from those days, including some of Agravaine being shown how to do drill exercises.’ The smile on her face faded. ‘The only memory I have of my uncles is from a photograph of the two of them holding me at my christening. The regiment was sent back overseas, and they perished in action in Italy in 1944 just a few weeks before my first birthday.’

  A hard lump formed in Will’s throat, not just from the emotion in Morgana’s voice but because it sounded like this was the second set of twins the family had lost. First, the pair recorded on the little memorial he and Igraine had uncovered earlier, and later Morgana’s uncles. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t have the chance to know them.’

  Her smile deepened, and some of the sadness faded from her eyes. ‘Oh, you are sweet to say so. And you really must forgive me for raising such a maudlin topic.’

  Will shook his head. ‘Not at all. When you’re surrounded every day by so much history I imagine the past must feel a lot closer than for people like me who’ve lost their connections.’ His grandfather had moved to London for work, and his grandmother, like his father, had been an only child. Although he knew there were Talbots down in the west country, he had no links to any of them. He’d got the odd birthday card from an aunt on his mum’s side when he was younger, but those had tapered off as he’d grown up and he’d not pushed to maintain the link. It’d all felt too awkward and messy given the estrangement from his mum.

  That lack of roots had never been an issue for him. He couldn’t say he’d really even thought about it much at all until meeting a family like the Ludworths who were so entrenched in and influenced by everything their forebears had done. Whilst he could imagine there were some advantages from knowing where you’ve come from, there must be an equal-or likely heavier-burden of expectation and responsibility. If Will’s dad had harboured any particular ambitions for his son, he’d never shared them. Thinking about it, he must’ve been so relieved when Will’s passion for gardening had been sparked because prior to that he’d been on a collision course with trouble.

  ‘I suppose there are advantages and disadvantages to both.’ Morgana echoed his thoughts. ‘But I wouldn’t change my lot in life.’ Her gaze roamed the room, softening as it touched on where Arthur, Tristan and Igraine were chatting next to the drinks’ cabinet. ‘For all the sorrows that inevitably come when you’ve lived to my age, I’m blessed that the joys have outweighed them tenfold.’

  Tristan drifted over to join them, offering Will one of the two cold bottles of beer threaded through the fingers of one hand. Accepting it with a nod of thanks, Will was content to sit quietly as he watched the teasing interaction between Tristan and his aunt. There was a rhythm to it, a familiarity that said to Will the younger man was being deliberately outrageous precisely because he wanted to provoke the stern responses Morgana clipped out.

  The twinkle in her eyes said she knew exactly what her nephew was doing and was happy to play her part. Tristan was clearly a favourite and the source of many of those joys she’d spoken about. As he sipped his beer, Will sent a silent toast to the woman and hoped that when he reached a similar age, he might be able to say he’d enjoyed the same balance in his own life.

  Chapter 10

  The next few days passed in a blur of phone calls, spreadsheets and tours of the gardens as Iggy worked her way through the list of specialist contractors Will’s magician of an assistant had put together. When he’d handed her the list and told her to choose whichever of the contractors she thought best for each task, it had rankled. There’d been no discussion between them before he’d instructed his assistant and Iggy had half-wished she’d been prepared enough to counter with a list of her own.

  To make matters worse, the lists were detailed and included several companies she’d already heard good things about through local connections. She couldn’t say why it had irritated her other than the high-handed way Will had already marked up his preferred choices, as though she was incapable of making such decisions for herself.

  Given Will’s desire to keep his profile as low as possible in the hopes the tabloids would soon lose interest in him, they’d at least agreed that Iggy would carry out the discussions and interviews on her own. Quotations were starting to come through, and with a copy of his company’s job pricing spreadsheet Will had told her to use-told her, not asked her, the arrogant swine-she was feeling much more in control of everything other than her temper.

  She knew it was ridiculous to be annoyed when she was the one who’d asked Will for his help in the first place, she just hadn’t known how hard it would be to let him do it. It was just the way he assumed he knew best-even if he probably did-that grated upon her. She wasn’t one of his employees to be ordered around, he was supposed to be working for her!

  If anyone had asked her before she’d started the project, Iggy would’ve scoffed about needing any more confidence than she already had, but the weight of expectation had proven surprisingly heavy. As much as she hated his domineering attitude, she also desperately craved Will’s approval for her decisions. When he gave her that smile-the lopsided one that tugged at the scar across his cheek-to show his approval, her insides melted like ice cream on a summer’s day.

  Other than the hour they spent over breakfast reviewing her plans for the day, which often felt like he was a teacher checking over her homework, and a debrief after dinner where they discussed the pros and cons of the job bids coming in, Will had proven frustratingly elusive. When she didn’t want his opinion, there he was shoving it under her nose, but when she did need to ask him something, he was off around the grounds somewhere, or hiding away in his bedroom.

  She knew he was working on something but was refusing to say what until he had it all worked out. She’d spotted him a time or two in the distance, but always in a different part of the grounds so she’d been unable to pinpoint what had captured his imagination. Never one to enjoy being left in the dark, Iggy had begun plotting to steal his ever-present notebook away.

  Just thinking about it sent her eyes straying across the room to where Will was currently curled in the corner of one of the big Chesterfield sofas, pencil flying as he sketched away at something. Why wouldn’t he talk to her about it, already? It didn’t make sense to her for him to invest so much time in a plan she-or the others-might not approve of. Iggy gave herself a mental pinch at that thought. She couldn’t let her impatience cloud her judgement, especially where Will was concerned. This tendency to overreact to him was beyond disconcerting when she’d always prided herself on her self-control.

  The family had taken to postponing tea and coffee straight after dinner, opting instead to gather or scatter after the meal as desired before meeting up around nine-thirty to round off the day together. Some evenings saw everyone migrating straight to the family room. Tonight, everyone else had something to do, and Iggy had expected to have the place to herself. When she’d walked in to find Will already ensconced on one of the sofas, she’d had little option other than to take up position on the one opposite and try to focus on the handful of quotations in front of her.

  Who’d known the sound of a pencil could be so loud? Every time she tried to concentrate on her own work, that scrit-scrit-scrit of graphite on paper hypnotised her until the figures on the quotes swam before her eyes and all she could think about was finding out what Will was working on. What if she hated it? Or worse, what if she loved it and everyone else in the family hated it?

  It had been her idea to get Will involved with the restorations, but what if his ideas were a step too far? Tristan might be on board with a modern installation, but Arthur could be a b
it of a stick in the mud when it came to these things. She couldn’t blame him. Being the Baronet wasn’t just a title, it was a legacy of mistakes and triumphs, and she knew he desperately wanted to end up on the right side of the ledger when his current decisions were looked back upon by future generations. He’d been brilliant so far in giving her and Tristan free rein to do what they thought would help set right the family fortunes, but if she made a decision which fundamentally altered the landscape, it would be judged against Arthur’s name, not hers, because he had the title thanks to his correct combination of chromosomes.

  Mrs W entered the family room at that moment, her arms laden with an enormous tea tray. Grateful for the distraction, Iggy was ready to jump up to assist, but a quelling look from their housekeeper kept her glued to the butter-soft leather of the sofa. She watched as Mrs W set down the tray and laid out the tea things just to her liking. A quick circuit of the room followed-a twitch to one of the long velvet curtains, here, the plumping of a squashed cushion there-before she judged the room worthy of her standards with a nod. ‘Is there anything else you need before I turn in?’

  Iggy shook her head, returning the other woman’s warm smile. ‘No, that’s perfect, thank you. One of us will clear the tray away when we’re finished.’ She held out a hand to their housekeeper, urging her to come closer. ‘Will you be seeing Betsy?’ The housekeeper and the cook often shared a pot of tea in Mrs W’s parlour before bed.

  ‘Yes. She’s got me hooked on a new boxset, so we’re about to start the next episode. Did you need me to pass something on to her?’

  ‘Can you just let her know the hedge contractors are starting tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll have their own provisions, but if she could fix a flask or two after she’s finished with breakfast, I’ll drop in and pick them up.’

  ‘Of course, dear. It’s going to be a hot one according to the forecast, so we’ll get one of the cold boxes made up with some soft drinks as well.’ She gave Iggy a mock-stern look. ‘Don’t let me catch you outside without a hat, either.’

  During one particularly scorching summer in 2003, Iggy had spent too long playing outside and ended up with horrible sunburn. ‘Come on, Mrs W, I haven’t had sunburn since I was ten years old! I peeled for weeks and learnt my lesson.’

  ‘And, I still remember the look on your poor father’s face when he carried you in from the garden.’

  Iggy frowned. ‘I don’t remember that.’ All she remembered was the terrible itch in her skin and the relentless teasing from her brothers as her arms, shoulders and most of her face had flaked and peeled leaving her skin patchy as a piebald pony.

  Mrs W placed a hand on the top of Iggy’s hair, smoothing it down in a gesture that had always made Iggy feel safe, warm and loved. She’d been feeling out of sorts ever since she and Will had discovered that heartbreaking little memorial in the secret garden. How her many-times great-grandparents must’ve loved those poor babies, even without getting the chance to do much more than hold them for a few moments.

  It was the kind of love her own mother was apparently incapable of. With Mrs W’s touch grounding her, Iggy felt the sadness easing away. A mother’s touch could come in many forms-and from many different hands.

  ‘You had the worst case of sunstroke I’ve ever seen.’ Mrs W continued the rhythmic movement over Iggy’s hair. Each stroke carried the echo of so many such comforting moments with it. ‘Luckily, we got your temperature down, but you were quite poorly for a few hours. Gave us all a dreadful fright.’ The gentle hand shifted from her hair to her cheek, tilting Iggy’s head until she met the housekeeper’s warm gaze. ‘So, you’ll have to forgive me if I sometimes make a fuss.’

  Leaning her cheek into the touch, Iggy counted her blessings. She hadn’t had one mother, she’d had four. The one who’d birthed her, and three others in Morgana, Mrs W, and Betsy. Between the three of them they’d kissed every scraped knee, soothed away every nightmare and given her a proper sense of herself as an individual as well as helping her to recognise the unique gift being one of three with Arthur and Tristan truly was. Helena might have carried her, but the other three had shaped her into the woman she was today. Trying not to choke on the thick emotion gathering in her chest, Iggy captured Mrs W’s hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. ‘You can always make a fuss. Always.’

  The look they shared was threatening to get a little teary. Mrs W drew in a deep breath. ‘Darling girl, I must get back to Betsy or she’ll have started without me. We’ll sort out plenty of drinks and snacks for tomorrow.’ She glanced over her shoulder to where Will was still scribbling away in his notebook. ‘And you make sure you’ve got a hat tomorrow as well, young man.’

  Will’s eyes flicked from the page to the pair of them in a way that told Iggy he’d been aware of the conversation but had been trying to give them privacy. His grey eyes sparkled from beneath his thick, dark brows, a dimple Iggy had never noticed before creasing his unscarred cheek. God, that smile did something to her insides. Made her think things she had no business thinking. If he looked at her like that, Iggy feared she might dissolve on the spot. Thankfully, he was directing all that charm elsewhere. Raising two fingers to his brow, Will gave a small salute. ‘Yes, Mrs W.’

  The singsong note to his reply made the housekeeper laugh, though Iggy couldn’t help but notice a slight flush on the housekeeper’s cheek. It seemed no woman was immune to the power of Will Talbot’s smile. ‘Cheeky boy. Right, I shall wish you both a goodnight. Don’t stay up too late working.’

  ‘No, Mrs W,’ they chorused together, their eyes meeting in gleeful delight at the unexpected connection of their words and tones matching.

  ‘Terrible, the pair of you.’ Shaking her head, a broad smile fixed firmly in place, the housekeeper left the room.

  The moment she left, a frisson of tension settled over the room, and Iggy felt the grin on her lips slipping as the warm humour in Will’s eyes shifted into something deeper. They’d sat together in this room on plenty of occasions over the past few evenings, both with and without other people around, had sat side-by-side at breakfast only that morning, but she’d never felt truly alone with him until right then.

  His gaze dipped from her eyes to her mouth, drawing Iggy’s attention to the fact she’d pulled her lower lip between her teeth. Horrified, she stopped at once. Iggy was not the kind of woman who nibbled her lip. That sort of thing was for women who had foolish thoughts on their minds; seductive thoughts; dangerous thoughts.

  Needing to break the connection, she uncrossed her legs from where they’d been curled up beneath her. ‘Cup of tea? I’m having a cup of tea, I think, or maybe a hot chocolate.’ Knowing she was babbling, Iggy broke eye contact and made a beeline for the tea tray which Mrs W had thankfully placed on a table behind Will’s back negating the need to look at him again. ‘Although it’s perhaps a bit warm this evening for chocolate, that’s more for when I’m in the mood to curl up with something.’ Or someone.

  No. No. She was not going to allow her thoughts to stray in that direction. With much clattering of spoons against china, she set out two cups on their saucers and flipped open the wooden box filled with a selection of different flavoured teas. Her hand hovered over her usual Earl Grey before she hesitated. Perhaps she’d better stay off the caffeine. Something nice and relaxing. Something to calm the jittery feeling welling in her stomach. Settling for camomile, she tore open the envelope, almost ripping the top off the bag in the process. The fact she managed to get more hot water into the cup and not all over the tray was frankly something of a miracle the way her hand was suddenly shaking. She did not fancy Will. She. Did. Not.

  The weight of his continued silence sat heavy at her back, and it took a breath of courage before Iggy managed to turn around. ‘Well, what are you having?’

  He’d twisted on the sofa to face her, one tanned arm stretched along the back cushion. Dark hair sprinkled his forearm, serving a vivid reminder of the differences between them. His dark skin to her
light, his short rough hair to her smooth, flowing curls, his hard plains to her softer curves and hollows. That pricking heat was still in his eyes, tempered now with a hint of wariness, as though he too was uncomfortable at the change in atmosphere between them.

  Needing to look away-but not ready to acknowledge that need to either of them-she shifted her attention to the notebook balanced on the back of the sofa next to his hand. It was upside down, and she found herself tilting her head to one side for a better look at the shaded lines. When his thick arm shifted to block the view, irritation pricked her, bursting the bubble of tension which had been threatening to envelope them. She turned away, rattling the tea tray once more. ‘Well, do you want a drink or not?’

  She hadn’t meant to sound so snippy, but honestly, the way he’d covered his notebook like a child in school worried someone was trying to copy his homework sent her annoyance with him through the roof. It wasn’t like she’d been snooping. Okay, yes, she might have glanced at his notes and sketches, but really, he was acting like he was guarding a national secret. Besides, it was his own fault for looking at her like that. If he’d just kept his eyes to himself, she wouldn’t have needed to seek distraction elsewhere.

  ‘I’ll have a decaf coffee, if there is some, please.’ The utter calmness in his tone only served to heighten awareness at her own foolish behaviour. She had to stop blowing hot and cold like this, before he read too much into it.

  Forcing herself to move slowly, she fixed his coffee, adding a tiny splash of milk without having to ask. When had she started paying attention to the way he liked his coffee? How did she know that if she offered him the small plate of biscuits resting on the tray he’d choose the plain digestive over the sugary bourbon or the sweet custard cream? Not wanting to analyse it too deeply, she snatched the digestive from the plate and tucked it onto his saucer before turning back with his drink. ‘There you go.’