Bluebell Castle

Spring Skies Over Bluebell Castle

SARAH BENNETT

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Sarah Bennet 2019

Sarah Bennet asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008314804

Version: 2019-03-18

For Phillipa – always an inspiration x

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader

Extract

Keep Reading…

Advert

About the Author

Also by Sarah Bennett

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

‘Arthur? Arthur!’

The bellowing of his name roused Arthur Ludworth from a most pleasant snooze in front of the fireplace in the family room. Giving several of the castle’s mob of unruly dogs a gentle shove, he fought his way free from the cosy depths of one of the matching burgundy leather sofas and stood. Scrubbing a hand across his eyes, he frowned as Lancelot yelled his name once more. His normally placid-tempered uncle sounded furious.

‘Lord, what’s he shouting about?’ Tristan, Arthur’s younger brother by a matter of minutes, protested from the opposite sofa, one arm draped over his eyes, the other holding a brandy balloon which was in serious danger of spilling its precious contents onto the worn and faded Aubusson rug stretched out before the fire. Pippin, Tristan’s scruffy little border terrier, raised his head briefly from his master’s chest to grumble about being disturbed before settling back down again.

‘Mrs W’s probably hidden the whisky from him again,’ Igraine, the eldest of the three Ludworth triplets, said from her cross-legged position next to the fire, eyes still fixed on the screen of her e-reader. Thanks to an ancestor’s obsession with the Knights of the Round Table, it had become tradition for subsequent generations of Ludworths to be named after characters from those legends. Arthur felt like he and his brother had gotten away lightly—considering his grandfather had gone full-bore ridiculous in naming his sons Uther and Lancelot—but their sister hadn’t been so lucky. Refusing to be saddled with such a flowery name, she’d shorted it to Iggy, and woe betide anyone who forgot it.

‘Arthur!’ Lancelot’s roar was closer this time. ‘The hellbeast is on the phone for you.’

The last of Arthur’s post-dinner good mood evaporated at the mention of his uncle’s nickname for their mother. His soft groan was echoed by the other two. ‘Perhaps she’s called to wish us Happy New Year,’ he said, more out of hope than expectation.

‘Perhaps hell has frozen over,’ Iggy muttered, as she played her fingers over the thick dark plait of hair curling over one shoulder and almost into her lap. The self-soothing gesture was a hangover from their childhood, and one of those unconscious habits she’d never quite managed to break.

Arthur wanted to reach out and stop her, to take her hand and offer the comfort she obviously needed, but he stopped himself. There was too much to say—nothing he hadn’t already said a million times since he’d first become aware of the anachronistic inheritance rules attached to the Baronetcy of Ludworth that made him the rightful heir over her simply because he was their father’s first-born legitimate male issue—but tonight, of all nights, was not the one. He’d try again, soon, before the gulf he could sense between them split any wider.

Using one hand to hold his beloved pup in place, Tristan sat up then drained the last of the cognac in his glass. ‘If she asks after me, tell her I’m dead.’

‘Tris…’ Arthur hated himself for the soft admonishment the moment it left his lips.

Tristan shrugged, then checked his watch. ‘It’s nearly eleven, I’m going to sort Dad’s stuff out.’ Placing Pippin on the floor, he stood. The terrier cast him a baleful look at being so rudely disturbed then wandered over to jump up on the sofa Arthur had abandoned and wriggled his way into the centre of the dog pile still occupying most of it.

Iggy rose, all fluid grace and lean muscle from a lifetime spent more outdoors than in. ‘I’ll help you.’ The two of them left the family room via the opposite door just as Lancelot’s silvered head popped around the other one.

‘Traitors,’ Arthur muttered, before offering his uncle a weary smile. ‘How is she?’ He pointed at the cordless phone in Lancelot’s hand.

‘Poisonous, as ever.’ His uncle made no attempt to lower his voice as he thrust the phone towards him, and Arthur winced at the indignant squawk coming from the handset. ‘I’m off down The Castle for a pint.’ The only pub in the small village that sprawled out from the edges of the Ludworth Estate wasn’t the most imaginatively named establishment, but there was a guaranteed warm welcome for all who entered its front door.

Arthur wrapped his hand over the receiver. ‘You’re not coming out with us later?’

Lancelot shook his head, the fierce frown on his rugged features melting away, leaving behind lines of strain and grief. ‘Can’t do it, lad. Saying goodbye to him once was bad enough.’

Arthur swallowed. He didn’t feel much like doing it himself, but his father had been very clear about his final wishes, so he would honour them together with Tristan and Iggy. ‘We’ll walk down afterwards and say hello to everyone.’ And make sure Lancelot didn’t fall down one of the grassy embankments, which were all that remained of the once-imposing moat that had protected the residents of Camland Castle from invaders for centuries, on his way home. With a brief nod, his uncle left the room.

Having no more excuses to avoid speaking to his mother, Arthur lifted the phone to his ear. ‘Hello, Mother, how are you?’

‘How am I? How can you ask me that? How could he have been so cruel?’ Helena Ludworth-Mills-Wexford-Jones broke down into noisy sobs which Arthur knew from long experience wouldn’t produce enough tears to ruin her perfect make-up.

With a sigh, he rested his head back against the dark wood panelling lining the wall behind him and let the performance play out. His eyes strayed instinctively to the smiling portrait over the fireplace, and he wondered—not for the first time—how someone as jolly and lively as his dad had ended up married to someone like Helena.

Within less than a minute the sobs had quietened to a series of breathy gasps and he was able to make himself heard. ‘Who’s been cruel to you, Mother?’ It was a pointless question. Deep down in his gut he knew what the call was about. He’d settled the last bits of his father’s will with the solicitor the previous week. Not the best way to spend Christmas Eve, but the timing couldn’t be helped and Arthur had just been glad to see the back of everything after several months trying to tie off the myriad strands of red tape tangled around his dad’s sprawling portfolio. Once they’d untangled the mess of dodgy investments, short-term loans and several eye-watering overdrafts it had become clear to Arthur the estate he’d inherited was flat broke.

‘Your father, of course. He waited until the last to drive a dagger into my heart. I bet he went to his grave laughing over it.’

‘There wasn’t much to laugh about at the end,’ Arthur said, fighting to keep his voice steady as he pictured his father at the last. Uther’s once hearty frame had been reduced to little more than skin stretched over bone by the cancer that had ravaged him in a few short months.

‘But how am I supposed to survive on the pittance he’s left me?’ Helena wailed.

Arthur gripped the phone so hard his fingers turned white. God, she had a bloody nerve. ‘Technically, he didn’t owe you a penny.’ Helena had walked out on the four of them before the triplets’ second birthday, declaring her duty done, and had barely looked back. Even after she’d demanded a divorce to marry her second of four husbands—and counting—his dad had continued to support her financially over the next twenty-five years and had insisted on a final settlement for her in his will, one which the over-stretched estate could ill afford.

‘How can you say that? He owed me! Giving birth to the three of you ruined my figure and destroyed my career.’ Her voice wavered, and Arthur braced himself for another round of crocodile tears.

‘One feature in a magazine thirty years ago doesn’t exactly amount to a modelling career, Mother.’

‘That’s because I met your father shortly afterwards, and I had to give it up. I gave him everything he wanted—an heir, a spare and even a bloody brood mare to carry on the family line and look how he repays me!’

Anger shot through him. He hated the dismissive way she talked about them, especially Iggy. ‘That’s enough, Mother. The terms of Dad’s will have been settled and there’s nothing more to be said about it.’ He’d cut out his own tongue before he’d admit to her the mess they were in. It was his business—well, his, Iggy’s and Tristan’s because they’d refused to let him shoulder it alone—and no one else’s.

‘But you’re Baronet Ludworth now, Arthur.’

‘Not officially.’ In order to inherit his father’s title, Arthur had been required to apply to the Department for Constitutional Affairs to be formally recognised and have his name entered onto the official Roll of the Baronets. As with most things of that nature, the wheels turned slowly, and he was still awaiting confirmation. He’d tried in vain to appeal to them for Iggy to be recognised as the rightful heir, but had been advised, not unsympathetically, that the restrictions laid down could not be overturned.

‘Oh, you know what I mean.’ His mother’s formerly shrill tones turned soft and wheedling. ‘You control the estate.’

Arthur laughed, a bitter snap of sound. ‘You’ll get nothing out of me, Mother. Not one more penny.’ Even if the estate finances weren’t teetering on the brink, he had nothing to give the woman who’d ruined his father’s life.

‘He’s turned you against me! Listen, Arthur, you don’t understand—’

Bloody hell, the nerve of the woman! His dad had never said a bad word against her, had done everything in his power to keep a relationship between his beloved children and the mother who’d never given two hoots for them. Arthur had shed his last tears for her after she’d failed to turn up to collect the three of them from school for a long-promised weekend. They’d been 13 at the time. Tristan and Iggy had given up after an hour and gone back to their rooms, but Arthur had stayed on the front steps convinced she’d come motoring up any second complaining about a holdup with the traffic. As each hour past he’d gone from excited, to hopeful, and eventually to worried she’d had some terrible accident. His housemaster had finally coaxed a tearful, frozen Arthur inside after putting in a call to his father who’d tracked Helena down at Ascot races. Having received an invitation to someone’s box, she’d chosen to spend the day seeing and being seen by her society friends and couldn’t understand what the fuss was all about.

With an echo of that sad boy in his heart, Arthur cut off her protestations. ‘You abandoned us without a second thought, there’s nothing left to understand. If you need money, I suggest you ask your current husband for it.’ Arthur ended the call before any more of the bitterness welling up inside him could spill out. Shaking himself like one of their Labradors emerging from the pond after a dip, Arthur shed the cold shards of disappointment threatening to seep into his heart. She was never going to change. He’d known that at 13, and now, at 27, it was time to acknowledge it.

‘What did she want?’ Tristan entered the family room bundled up in a navy padded jacket and a bright yellow scarf, a locked metal box balanced carefully across his arms.

‘Money.’

‘I hope you told her to get stuffed,’ said Iggy who’d entered on Tristan’s heels, equally well wrapped up and carrying Arthur’s coat which she thrust at him.

‘Close enough.’ Accepting his coat, he tugged it on then moved to give Tristan a hand with the box. It wasn’t heavy, but they didn’t want to risk any accidents. ‘Are we ready for this?’

‘Nope, but let’s do it anyway.’ With a shrug, Iggy pulled a white knitted cap over her dark hair then tugged on a pair of matching gloves. God, she looked so sad. Arthur bet if he looked in a mirror right then, the same haunted look in her hazel eyes would be reflected in his. ‘I’ve put your boots by the front door,’ she said, pointing to the thick woollen socks on his otherwise bare feet.

‘Cheers, Iggle-Piggle.’ The hated nickname earned him a punch on the arm, but at least it eased some of the pain tightening her face.

It also sent him jostling into Tristan, who staggered a couple of steps, trying to keep the box steady. ‘Careful! We don’t want Dad going off by accident.’

Iggy patted the metal box with one gloved hand. ‘Sorry, Dad.’ The three of them laughed at the absurdity of it, further easing the stress of what was to come.

Steadying the box between them, Arthur and Tristan followed their sister through the echoing vaulted central chamber of the great hall. Once the beating heart of Camland Castle, it now belonged mostly to the dogs whose sprawling mass of beds and pillows occupied pride of place before the enormous fireplace which Arthur—at just a shade under six-feet tall—could still walk inside without ducking. Thick, evergreen boughs decorated with sprigs of blood-red holly berries and creamy-white clumps of mistletoe covered the high mantle, scenting the air with fresh pine. A matching display filled the middle of the enormous, age-scarred circular table positioned in the exact centre of the room.

As he did every time he passed through the space, Arthur paused to admire his sister’s handiwork. Born with a green thumb, according to their great-aunt, Morgana, Iggy was never happier than when she could escape into the gardens and woodland stretching out around the castle.

Their progress halted by the front door for Arthur to stuff his feet into the dark-green wellingtons his sister had previously put out for him. Ever practical, she’d also left a large torch beside his boots, something he’d completely forgotten to think about when they’d been planning this evening. Arthur watched Iggy’s face as she pulled opened the left-hand side of the imposing oak front door. The moment the chilly December air touched her skin, her whole body seemed to lift and lighten, as though she were some kind of sprite, only able to truly thrive out of doors.

Standing to one side, she ushered Arthur and Tristan out then shooed several disappointed dogs back into the warmth of the hall. ‘No walkies for you tonight, darling, you won’t like the noise,’ she said, rubbing the silken ears of Nimrod, one of a pair of greyhounds they’d adopted from the local shelter.

Knowing they had the space to accommodate them, the shelter would often call if they were struggling to rehome any dogs. Large dogs; older ones; those at the less aesthetically pleasing end of the spectrum—Arthur and his siblings would take them in. The numbers in the pack had ebbed and flowed over the years, and those that passed on were buried together in a beautiful grove in the woods, so they could ‘rest forever in the sunshine’ as Iggy had declared when they’d first chosen it as children.

Nimrod snuffled her palm, then allowed Iggy to gently ease him back far enough to tug the heavy door closed once more. A few protesting barks followed them as they descended the steps, but Arthur knew they’d soon all be sprawled in front of the hearth in a tangle of heads and tails.

Iggy dug her own torch from her pocket and aimed it at the gravel ahead of her, giving them a point of reference to follow. They followed the path as it wound around the western wall of the castle and beyond to the faded and overgrown formal gardens where it finally gave way to the gallops still used daily to exercise the horses from the successful Bluebell Castle stud their uncle ran from the stables.

The whimsical name was drawn from the incredible floral display the woods surrounding the castle put on every spring. The little flower had become so synonymous with the Ludworth family it had even found its way onto their family crest. Thoughts of what might become of his uncle’s business haunted Arthur along with a million other worries. Lancelot’s reputation was good enough the business could survive relocating elsewhere if the worst of their nightmares came true and Arthur was forced to sell up, but it’d be a devasting loss to the members of the local community who relied upon it for employment.

The circle of torchlight stopped as Iggy paused. ‘Here?’

‘Just a bit further, and then I reckon we’ll be fine,’ Tristan replied. ‘What do you think, Arthur?’

It was hard to gauge distances in the dark, but he knew the land beneath his feet as well as the back of his own hand. They were almost to the edge of where the formal lands surrounding their home gave way to the wild escarpments of the Derbyshire hills. Their father had loved tromping over those hills and it was also a symbolic threshold. Free of all worldly responsibilities, Uther’s spirit—or whatever—could escape back to the untamed wildness of nature. ‘Here is probably as good a spot as any. We’re well away from any trees.’

‘I think it’s perfect,’ Iggy’s voice held a slight tremor, but the beam of light cast by her torch onto the ground in front of them was steady as a rock.

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing with these things?’ Arthur asked Tristan as they bent to place the box gently on the ground.

‘I’m sure. I’ve read the instructions at least half a dozen times, and I had a briefing from the manufacturers when I went and picked them up. Stop fussing.’ The last was said with exasperated affection.

Taking up a position opposite his sister, Arthur pointed his own torch to increase the illuminated area and give Tristan enough room to work with. Trying to quell the nerves in his stomach, Arthur watched his brother unfasten the metal container and draw out the first of several massive rockets attached to long sticks. ‘Trust Dad to come up with something as daft as this,’ he muttered.

Tristan’s broad grin flashed up briefly in the torch light. ‘I think it’s a fab idea, who wouldn’t want to be turned into fireworks when they die?’

Just about everybody he could think of, but Arthur kept that to himself. Tristan had become enamoured with the idea from the moment they’d first read the request included in their father’s will. Arthur had never heard of it before, but once they’d looked it up on the internet, it had proven to be more popular than he’d expected. After reading some of the touching testimonials on the manufacturer’s site, he’d agreed to go along with it.

With their dad having passed away in early October, they could’ve done this on Bonfire night, but it had been Iggy’s suggestion that they wait until New Year Eve’s and mark the passing of the old year into the new with this final farewell and tribute. The symbolism of it had led Arthur to suggest this as the location, echoing as it did that transition from one thing to another: old to new; settled lands to wilderness; life to death.

Tristan paced out the placement of each of the eight rockets provided with the kit and set them firmly into the ground. He then removed the central piece of the display—a multi-firework barrage which could be lit by a single fuse. Straightening up, he checked his watch. ‘Five minutes.’

They waited in silence until the first distant chime from the village church, then Tristan stepped forward to fire the first rocket using the special ignitor kit provided by the manufacturer. A shiver travelled down Arthur’s spine at the distinctive whoosh of the firework streaking high into the air, and then all his worries vanished as a huge boom echoed off the nearby rocky hills and a sparkle of silver and blue bloomed across the dark sky above their heads. Seconds later, the second rocket splashed golden rain, swiftly followed by the third, a bright silver starburst that ended in a series of crackles. Tristan lit two more, bright blue then bright green, five in total to mark each decade of their father’s too-brief life.

Having lit the barrage, Tristan stepped back to join Arthur and Iggy who’d come to stand beside him and they watched in awed silence as the sky lit up with flash after flash of multi-coloured sparks sending their father on his way. Though the company had promised the barrage would last for two minutes it felt like much longer, and by the end of it Arthur found his face was aching from smiling so much at the sheer joy and exuberance. ‘Well done, Dad.’

‘That was fabulous, just perfect,’ Iggy said as she squeezed his hand.

‘Just the last three left.’ Tristan offered the ignitor to Arthur. ‘Age before beauty.’ Arthur took it with a shake of his head. Apart from a pale scar bisecting Arthur’s left eyebrow thanks to a fall from one of the mighty oak trees spread throughout their woods, they were alike enough to be mistaken for each other by anyone who didn’t know the family well.

As he stepped up to one of the remaining rockets, all traces of humour fled and he found it hard to breathe around a sudden ache in his chest. The official memorial service they’d held back in the autumn had been the time for wordy tributes and eulogies. Now, he had only one thing left to say. ‘Blaze bright, Dad, always.’ With shaking fingers, he touched the ignitor to the fuse.