Spring Skies Over Bluebell Castle Page 6

  When the case banged into her ankle for the third time, its weight and the momentum of the slope causing it to careen a little unsteadily, she realised she’d been too quick in giving those thanks. With a huff and an angry shove that sent the unwitting cause of her misery spinning into the chain link fence lining the rear of the station platform, Lucie sank down onto the cold metal bench nearby. She scanned up and down the platform for an electronic sign, or a timetable noticeboard at least, but there was nothing as far as she could see. There was nothing she could do, it seemed, but wait.

  Wanting to make a good impression, she’d chosen to wear a skirt suit and a pair of low heels, teamed with her best wool coat. A decision she now regretted as the cold wind whistled past her once more, sending a run of goose bumps over legs clad only in thin nylon tights. To add insult to injury, a fine drizzle began to fall from the clouds overhead, soaking through the wool of her coat in a matter of minutes. Unable to face the return journey back over the bridge, and with no idea how much longer she would have to wait, Lucie tugged a beret from her pocket to cover her hair, hunched her shoulders and willed the train to hurry up.

  Ten long minutes later, a single carriage train pulled up at the platform disgorging several passengers who scurried past Lucie with barely a glance. With no sign of any member of staff around, Lucie approached the open door of the train and peered inside just as the internal door to the driver’s area slid back. ‘Eee, you startled me, love!’ A grey-haired man with the kind of creases on his cheeks that said he smiled a lot clutched at his chest and staggered back in an exaggerated movement, the twinkle in his eyes telling her there was no harm done. ‘Are you all right, there?’ he added, taking in her bedraggled state with a quick once-over.

  ‘I’m looking for the train to Camland.’

  ‘Then you’re in the right place. Hop on, love, and I’ll get you there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, or forty-seven minutes if you go by what the timetable says.’

  Grateful at the chance of shelter, Lucie hurried to retrieve her suitcase, and didn’t demur when the driver reached down to help her lift it into the train. ‘Blimey, love, you running away to join the circus?’

  His kind, familiar manner was so unlike the brisk efficiency of London, she smiled. She would have to get used to being called ‘love’ or spend the next couple of months in permanent offence if he and the guard she’d spoken to previously were anything to go by. It could be worse, she mused, unbuttoning her wet coat and hooking it over the back of the seat in front of her. She’d take chatty over being ignored any day of the week. The door shushed closed behind her, and Lucie settled back in her seat, grateful for the warmth of the carriage. Well, for the first few minutes until she could feel dampness beneath her armpits and her wet coat started to steam. The central heating on the train had clearly been set to tropical.

  Standing up, she tugged open the nearest window with a sigh of relief as a blast of cold air hit her glowing face, followed swiftly by a much less wanted shower of raindrops. Another gust drove more rain through the open window and she shoved it closed with a gasp. She could either boil or drown. Great.

  Over the next ten minutes, the train door opened and closed as a handful of other passengers climbed aboard. As was human nature, they scattered around the carriage with as much space between each other as possible, and were soon plugged into headphones, or had their noses buried in e-readers, tablets or paperback books. Not everyone was social in this part of the world, apparently, and Lucie was grateful for that as it gave her time to gather her wits and think about what lay ahead.

  From almost the moment she’d opened the email offering her the position at Camland, she’d been thinking about what she should say if Sir Arthur asked any awkward questions about why she’d left her position at Witherby’s. On her application, she’d said she wanted the chance to explore a collection in depth, and highlighted the six months she’d spent in the cataloguing and records section at the auction house as part of her training. Not a lie, but also not the truth, and it was beginning to sit uncomfortably with her. That bloody non-disclosure agreement had tied her hands. Then again, who in their right mind would let someone suspected of what she’d been accused of doing cross their threshold? Talk about a Catch-22 situation. She’d just have to hope the topic didn’t come up. As the train pulled out of the station, she leant her head back, closed her eyes and began to run over the introductory speech she’d been working on.

  *

  In what seemed like a matter of moments, Lucie woke to a hand shaking her shoulder lightly. ‘Wake up, love, this is the end of the line.’

  Panic and adrenaline shot through her. ‘Have I missed my stop?’

  The driver shook his head with an amused smile. ‘No, love, Camland is the end of the line. The end of the world some folks might say.’

  Fuzzy from the heat and her impromptu nap, Lucie tried to concentrate as she collected her belongings, shrugging on her now only slightly damp coat and shouldering the cursed backpack once more. When she reached the luggage area, it was to find the driver had already lifted her suitcase down onto the platform and popped up the handle with apparently no problems. ‘That’s very kind of you, thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure, love. Now you know where you’re headed?’

  ‘The castle. I’m hoping it shouldn’t be too hard to find,’ she said with a grin.

  The driver laughed. ‘Not hard at all, love. Just keep heading up until you can’t go any further.’

  Oh. Great. Trying not to let her smile slip, Lucie gave him a wave and trundled down the little platform towards the open gap at the end which led onto a tiny car park big enough for no more than a dozen cars. ‘The end of the world, indeed,’ she murmured to herself at the idea of any place small enough to manage with so little parking.

  The stone cottages she’d seen on her computer screen looked a little grimmer in real life, set as they were against a heavily leaden sky. Without the pretty hanging baskets and blooming window boxes of summer it was easy to see the peeling paint, the cracked and weathered pathways, the moss on the roof tiles. The front of more than one was marred with the ugly wheelie bins that pervaded housing estates throughout the country, even remote areas such as this, it seemed.

  Glancing left, then right, it wasn’t immediately obvious to Lucie which way she should go, and the tiny car park didn’t bear something as metropolitan as a taxi rank. Did they do Uber in Derbyshire? Lucie retrieved her phone from her pocket, stared at the single bar on her screen and tucked it away with a sigh. They might do Uber, but they didn’t do 3G.

  The path to her right was the more appealing of the two, with its gentle downward slope, but that’s not what the driver’s instruction had been. Taking a deep breath, Lucie grasped the handle of her suitcase and turned left. Up, the driver had said, and boy, he wasn’t kidding.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The yammering and barking of what sounded like every dog in the castle echoed around the great hall, the wild cacophony enough to draw Arthur out of his bedroom where he’d been changing his shirt ready for dinner. With only the cuffs on his navy-blue dress shirt buttoned, he strode along the landing then leaned over the thick oak bannister that edged the top of the stairs. Like a churning maelstrom of black, gold and brindle fur, the dogs circled a small black-clad figure who was edging away towards the side of the room. ‘Sit!’ Arthur bellowed, gratified as the noise cut off in an instant as he bounded down the stairs.

  ‘What the hell is all the fuss about…?’ He glowered at the now quivering pack of dogs who lay flat on their bellies, all eyes fixed on him.

  ‘I…I did knock several times, but nobody answered.’

  The soft response drew his eyes away from the unruly mongrels he was unfortunate enough to call his pets towards the small woman perched awkwardly on the edge of one of the sofas which lined the room, a large backpack making it impossible for her to sit properly. Beneath a sorry looking beret, he could make out a straggle of dark red hair an
d a smudge of pale skin. Weaving through the dogs, Arthur moved closer and realised her coat wasn’t black as he’d first imagined, but a paler grey turned dark by the rain pummelling the windows outside.

  ‘I didn’t mean for you to sit,’ he said, unable to help a grin as he realised it wasn’t only the dogs who’d responded automatically to his harsh command. Offering his hand, he nudged Nimrod, who’d planted himself at the woman’s feet, gently aside. ‘And I’m sorry for the unholy greeting you received from this rabble.’ A whine came from beside his hip, and Arthur dropped his free hand to caress the silken ears of Bella, the other of the pair of greyhounds who’d come over seeking forgiveness.

  When the woman continued to gawk up at him, Arthur shook his extended fingers impatiently in her direction. ‘Let me give you a hand up and out of that wet coat, you’ll catch a chill.’

  ‘I’m not the only one,’ she replied, cheeks flaming with colour.

  Following her gaze downwards, Arthur noted the expanse of bare chest showing through the open sides of his shirt and drop his hand to hurriedly button it. ‘Sorry, I was dressing for dinner when these hell hounds started up.’ Once he looked halfway decent, he extended his hand once more. ‘Arthur Ludworth, at your service, Miss…?’

  Fingers freezing a couple of inches from his, the woman’s head jerked up, giving him a first full glimpse of her face. And what a face, it was. Like one of the carved marble statues in the long gallery, her alabaster skin was smooth and flawless. Those deep-set green eyes were nothing like the dead stares of those goddesses and nymphs though. Nor the mane of glorious russet red hair, a shade or two deeper than a fox’s pelt, that spilled down her back now she’d tugged off that ugly hat. ‘A…Arthur Ludworth? As in Sir Arthur Ludworth?’

  ‘That’s right.’ From the startled expression on her face she’d clearly been expecting someone else. ‘I’m sorry, you have me at an advantage.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m Lucinda Kennington, you’re expecting me…’

  Ah. The art expert. Bloody Tristan and his stupid idea to post an ad in the paper. Of the dozens of responses to his advert, she’d been one of the few who hadn’t been either a crank or a blatant charlatan. By the time he’d reached Miss Kennington’s email, he’d been about ready to throw his laptop out the window in disgust over so much of his morning wasted.

  Her ability to use the correct grammar had been cause enough for celebration even before he’d glanced over the CV she’d attached. Arthur had fired back an immediate response and consigned the remainder of the unread applications to his electronic trash bin. She’d acknowledged his job offer and promised to confirm her arrival date and then he’d heard nothing further. ‘I didn’t know you were arriving today, Miss Kennington, forgive my confusion.’ Mind racing, Arthur wondered how long it would take Mrs W to get a room ready. From the looks of her, their unexpected arrival looked in dire need of a hot shower and a change of clothes.

  Russet lashes flickered in surprise. ‘I sent you an email confirming I would be travelling today.’ A warm blush brought colour to her creamy skin, highlighting the delicate arc of her cheekbones, the deep hollows around her vivid eyes. God, she really was quite lovely. The punch of attraction which followed that thought took him by surprise. Delicate porcelain beauties weren’t normally his type. He liked robust girls with laughs as big as their…personalities. He watched, fascinated, as Miss Kennington raised a hand to sweep a stray lock of hair from her forehead. Her wrist was so tiny he found himself wondering if he could span it with his thumb and forefinger. A man his size would have to be gentle around a woman like this. He found the idea oddly appealing.

  Giving himself a shake, Arthur pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at the blank space in the top left corner where the signal icon should have been and then rubbed his forehead in frustration. ‘We’ve been having problems with our internet the past couple of days, I didn’t think…’ Problems was putting it mildly. After months of double-billing them because they’d refused to close the old account in his father’s name without a copy of the certificate of probate, their provider had closed off both accounts without warning and was refusing to reinstate the new one Arthur had set up. Unable to get a decent mobile signal for more than a few minutes at a time had resulted in endless dropped calls leaving Arthur ready to scream as he was forced to renegotiate the endless ‘press one for new accounts, press four if you have lost the will to live’ automated menus that served no purpose he could see other than to thwart attempts to speak to an actual human being. Tristan had headed down to the village pub a couple of hours ago to try and use their pay phone in a last-ditch attempt to get the problem resolved.

  Miss Kennington visibly shivered, dragging Arthur away from his reverie. Really, he was being the most terrible host, what must she think of him? ‘Here, let me help you with your coat.’ He tugged her to her feet, an action that took almost no effort as she barely seemed to weigh anything, then tried to help her separate the wet wool from the suit jacket beneath it. The material didn’t yield easily resulting in a somewhat undignified tug of war as he pulled her coat one way whilst Miss Kennington wriggled in the other. Thinking it was some kind of game, Nimrod, Bella and a few of the other dogs who’d stayed at his side rather than wander over to bask before the fireplace tried to join in. ‘Get down, Nimrod! You too, Bertie. Bloody hounds, I’ll stick you all out in the stables if you don’t behave.’

  ‘I’m fine, it’s fine, I can manage,’ Miss Kennington was muttering, her attempts to avoid the dogs and escape her coat more hindrance than help.

  ‘Just hold still,’ Arthur found himself snapping with more force than he’d intended. Her cheeks flushed red, but at least she stopped faffing around long enough for him to get the soggy coat free. Holding the dripping coat away from himself, Arthur cast a mock-glare over the panting, prancing dogs who seemed delighted he’d won the game and were waiting to see what excitement lay in store for them next. ‘On your beds, go on!’

  With expressions that might have broken a softer heart, the mini pack retreated, all apart from Bella who’d taken up station in front of Miss Kennington, seemingly determined to protect her from the others. ‘You’ve won a friend there,’ Arthur said with a grin. When Miss Kennington didn’t return his smile, a terrible thought occurred to him. ‘Unless you don’t like dogs?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not really used to them, that’s all, and you do have rather a lot…’

  Arthur let his eyes roam over the motley furballs splayed out before the fire. ‘I’m not sure how we ended up with quite so many, to be honest.’ Other than the fact everyone around knows we’re a bloody soft touch when it came to anything on four paws. ‘They can be a bit overwhelming en masse, but I promise you they’d never cause you any harm.’

  To his relief, Miss Kennington dropped her fingers to caress the top of Bella’s head, and the brindle greyhound responded by pressing closer, her entire body vibrating with delight at the attention. ‘She’s beautiful.’

  ‘That’s Bella,’ Arthur said, unable to keep the note of affection out of his voice. He adored all their dogs, but as Pippin the little terrier was Tristan’s particular pet, Nimrod and Bella held a special place in Arthur’s heart.

  Miss Kennington sank into the chair behind her once more as she lavished more attention on the ecstatic greyhound. ‘Hello, Bella, you’re a gorgeous girl, aren’t you?’ Her long fingers stroking over the dog’s head held him mesmerised. Musician’s fingers, he thought, eyes fixated by the neat little nails unadorned with polish, and he wondered if she played an instrument. To everyone’s surprise—not least Arthur’s own—the compulsory music lessons at school had sparked a brief passion for playing the violin. Though the music master had despaired over his chunky fingers, it hadn’t stopped Arthur from learning, just made it a bit harder to find his way around the strings until he’d got the hang on it. As with his rugby, he’d never pursued it seriously, despite the urging of his tutor. What had been the point when his
future had been mapped out for him thanks to a bunch of archaic inheritance laws?

  Arthur reached for the length of blue rope hanging beside the door. Within moments Maxwell appeared, summoned from the depths of the castle via the bell pull. ‘You rang, Sir Arthur?’

  Trying not to roll his eyes at his butler’s studied formality, Arthur gestured towards Miss Kennington. ‘We have a guest, Maxwell. Can you track down Mrs W and make sure a room is made available for Miss Kennington?’

  Maxwell inclined his head. ‘I believe Mrs Walters has already prepared the rose room in anticipation of Miss Kennington’s arrival. It shouldn’t need more than the covers turning down.’

  Of course she had. Arthur might have known as much, as their housekeeper was the very model of efficiency.

  The butler extended one white gloved hand towards the stairs. ‘If you will allow me to escort you, Miss? Arrangements will be made for your luggage to be brought up shortly.’ He shouldered the backpack when Miss Kennington would’ve reached for it.

  Her eyes flickered uncertainly between him and Maxwell, so Arthur gave her a reassuring nod. ‘Go on and get settled. I’ll speak to Betsy and ask her to hold dinner for an hour, so you’ll have plenty of time to have a shower and get yourself warmed up.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to go to any trouble on my account.’ That rosy blush highlighted her cheeks once more.

  ‘It’s no trouble. I’m sure whatever Betsy has prepared can be held for a bit.’ Arthur raised an eyebrow towards Maxwell.

  ‘Beef and barley stew, sir,’ the butler provided helpfully.