Bluebell Castle
Bluebell Castle
Sarah Bennett
Don’t miss Sunshine Over Bluebell Castle, the second book in the delightfully uplifting Bluebell Castle trilogy!Perfect for fans of Trisha Ashley, Rachael Lucas and Hilary Boyd.Book 1: Spring Skies Over Bluebell CastleBook 2: Sunshine Over Bluebell CastleBook 3: Starlight Over Bluebell CastleReaders love Sarah Bennett:“Summer At Lavender Bay by Sarah Bennett is a deliciously warm, welcoming, fun contemporary read and just perfect for a summer's day.”“Absolutely loved this book it has a great story line and the characters feel like great friends who you laugh with and cry with and really care about.”“Such a joy to read – I cannot recommend this book enough!”“Sarah Bennett always keeps me entertained from the very first page”“Five stars from me!”“This is a brilliant five star modern fiction story.”
About the Author (#ua583fcff-fd26-5094-9e27-8df36c182ae2)
SARAH BENNETT has been reading for as long as she can remember. Raised in a family of bookworms, her love affair with books of all genres has culminated in the ultimate Happy Ever After: getting to write her own stories to share with others.
Born and raised in a military family, she is happily married to her own Officer (who is sometimes even A Gentleman). Home is wherever he lays his hat, and life has taught them both that the best family is the one you create from friends as well as relatives.
When not reading or writing, Sarah is a devotee of afternoon naps and sailing the high seas, but only on vessels large enough to accommodate a casino and a choice of restaurants.
You can connect with her via twitter @Sarahlou_writes (http://www.twitter.com/Sarahlou_writes) or on Facebook www.facebook.com/SarahBennettAuthor (http://www.facebook.com/SarahBennettAuthor)
Also by Sarah Bennett (#ua583fcff-fd26-5094-9e27-8df36c182ae2)
The Butterfly Cove Series
Sunrise at Butterfly Cove
Wedding Bells at Butterfly Cove
Christmas at Butterfly Cove
The Lavender Bay Series
Spring at Lavender Bay
Summer at Lavender Bay
Snowflakes at Lavender Bay
The Bluebell Castle Series
Spring Skies Over Bluebell Castle
Sunshine Over Bluebell Castle
Sunshine 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 Bennett 2019
Sarah Bennett 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.
Source ISBN: 9780008331009
E-book Edition © 2019 ISBN: 9780008314811
Version: 2019-07-01
Table of Contents
Cover (#udc596c30-87ba-5c1a-8231-9d5a61b30d5e)
About the Author
Also by Sarah Bennett
Title Page (#u5316da51-7b1a-5221-978a-0d1346673940)
Copyright (#u0a5f5625-ca68-55cf-bc2d-1ba9f9874a2b)
Dedication (#uaf1d5dd8-6ec3-5139-aa34-7523751beac2)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
For Charlotte –
thank you for believing in me when I don’t always believe in myself
Chapter 1 (#ua583fcff-fd26-5094-9e27-8df36c182ae2)
After a fruitless afternoon fighting with the overgrown tangle of thorns all but blocking the entrance to the maze which formed the centrepiece of the long neglected formal gardens of Bluebell Castle, Igraine Ludworth-Iggy to everyone but her formidable great-aunt, Morgana-was ready for nothing more than a quiet cry in a hot shower. Like the labours of Sisyphus, trying to make sense of the mess so many years of neglect had wrought to the gardens was starting to feel like a pointless exercise. It would take months of hard work, a bucketload of money, and a team full of assistants; the first she could manage, the other two… well a girl could dream.
Shoving at the frizzy, sweaty dark snarl of a fringe haphazardly shortened with a pair of secateurs in a foolish act of frustration the previous week, Iggy had just reached the end of the pathway leading to the enormous gravel driveway in front of the castle when she heard the sound of a vehicle crunching over the stones. Frustrations and her dire need for a shower forgotten, Iggy hurried as fast as her wellies would carry her towards the battered Land Rover pulling up on the other side of the enormous circular fountain and flower bed occupying pride of place in the centre of the drive.
‘You’re back, you’re back! How was it?’ Iggy asked her brother Arthur and his girlfriend as they clambered out of the vehicle. As the new baronet, Arthur had been invited to the local primary school to give out the prizes at their speech day, and he’d taken his girlfriend along for moral support.
Though the eldest of triplets, Igraine had been passed over in the line of succession of their family’s lands and title to Arthur, the middle child, as she had the misfortune of being the wrong sex. Had it not been for the blatant sexism etched in every word of the entailment of the Ludworth Baronetcy, it might have been Iggy presenting the prizes instead of Arthur.
There weren’t many times she was grateful for the words ‘Firstborn, legitimate male offspring’, but from the harassed look upon her brother’s face, now might be one of them.
‘They all wanted to take a selfie with me, like I was some kind of celebrity,’ he said, shaking his head in bemusement at the idea.
‘Well, you are the king of the castle, so to speak,’ she teased as she followed them up the stairs. The grin he shot her told her he knew she was only joking. Arthur might hold the title, but Bluebell Castle, as the locals had so quaintly nicknamed their ancestral home, was as much hers as it was Arthur’s, and their other brother Tristan’s, too.
As she and Tristan had told Arthur in more than one showdown when he tried to shield them from the worst of their current financial woes-they’d succeed or fail together. Nine months in the same womb, followed by nigh on thirty years of unshakeable loyalty between them could not be swept away by something as stupid as which one of them got to stick the word Baronet in front of their name.
As part of their plans to secure the family finances, Iggy had recently taken on the mammoth challenge of putting their overgrown grounds to rights so they could open up the estate to the public.
Reminded once more of how she’d spent her day, Iggy eased herself from the group hug. ‘I need a shower, I’ve been battling with the brambles all day.’
‘Well, I didn’t like to say anything …’ Arthur wrinkled his nose, eyes alight with mischief.
As Iggy took a playful swing towards his head, she found her arm captured by Lucie. ‘Goodness, look at the state of you, you’re scratched to bits! I’ll go and find Mrs W and see if she’s got some antiseptic cream.’
Mrs Walters-known affectionately by all as Mrs W-was the castle’s super-efficient housekeeper who, together with Maxwell the butler and Betsy the cook, kept things running. Though staff numbers had been cut to the bone over recent years, the three of them maintained a standard Iggy found frankly breathtaking.
With a laugh, Iggy gently extracted her arm and smoothed the sleeve of her top down over the mess on her arm. ‘I’ve got a medicine cabinet full of stuff like that. A few scratches come with the territory. Besides-’ she gave the pair of them an arch look ‘-I’m sure you’ve got better things to be doing than worrying about me.’
‘Indeed we do!’ Arthur swept a giggling Lucie up into his arms. ‘Miss Kennington here still owes me several more apologies for running out on me.’ The pair’s courtship had been something of a rocky road, and it was only a few weeks since they’d resolved everything between them.
‘I said I was sorry, but I’m happy to do so again,’ Lucie murmured, in the kind of tone reserved for whispered intimacies.
And that was definitely Iggy’s cue to depart. ‘I’ll leave you two to it.’
After hurrying up the front steps of the castle, Iggy shoved open one half of the enormous studded wooden door, only to find herself besieged by a cacophony of licking tongues and wagging tails as the castle’s pack of unruly dogs charged up to greet her. ‘All right, all right, you’d think I’d been gone for a month instead of a few hours,’ she said, trying to calm them with pats to their heads and affectionate ear rubs. ‘God, you’re soppy bunch.’
She’d just managed to toe off her filthy wellies and shoo the dogs clear of the door and halfway back towards the jumble of cushions and beds which occupied the space directly before the huge fireplace dominating the back wall of the great hall, when Nimrod, one of a pair of greyhounds let out a huge bark of welcome and swerved around her outstretched hand. Bella, the other greyhound, let out a keening yap and flew after him. The pretty brindle dog adored Lucie almost as much as Arthur did. Knowing she had no chance of holding the rest of the pack at bay now Arthur’s presence had been announced, Iggy stepped out of the way to let them charge pell-mell back across the hall to greet their beloved master, and the new mistress of the castle.
Taking care not to slip on the tiled floor in her thick woollen socks, Iggy made her way to the curving staircase and began to climb, her knees aching in protest after a day spent bending and crouching in the gardens. She had no plans for the evening-like most other evenings in recent memory-so perhaps she would forgo her planned shower and indulge in a soak in the claw-foot tub which dominated her bathroom. While she was alone she could catch up on the latest gossip about her favourite celebrity, the rock star of the gardening world-Will Talbot. Though she wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it, her fascination with him went beyond his amazing skills with plants and his innovative design skills. With his close-cropped hair and a wicked scar slicing across one cheek, Will was the most attractive man Iggy had ever seen.
Tristan had been reading one of the tabloids at breakfast that morning and she’d found herself staring at her secret crush as he scowled out from the front page. She’d waited until everyone had gone before filching the paper and hiding it up in her room for later study.
Yes, a hot bath and a bit of gossip was just what the doctor ordered, she decided.
Lost in thought, she didn’t notice Arthur was calling for her until he all but yelled her name. Turning as she reached the wide balcony at the head of the stairs, she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her brother on his knees surrounded by a mass of wriggling dogs, Lucie was curled up beside him, Bella ensconced firmly in her lap. Leaning on the balcony railing, Iggy called down, ‘What’s all the yelling about?’
‘I only said your name five times, cloth-ears,’ Arthur replied, the good-natured grin on his face turning into a startled laugh when Nimrod took advantage of his distraction to swipe a lick under his chin. ‘I wanted to have a chat with you,’ he continued. ‘Can you come and join me in my study before dinner? Say about half seven?’
Wondering what could be so important he would interrupt his and Lucie’s first-night-home celebrations for, Iggy frowned, before nodding in agreement. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’
‘Not at all,’ her brother assured her, but didn’t elaborate further.
She stared down at him for a few more moments as though she might have developed a previously unknown mind-reading ability in the two weeks he’d been down in London, but he remained as opaque as ever. Knowing Arthur as she did, there was no point in pushing him to reveal something before he was ready to talk about it. Might as well bash her head against the thick stone of the castle walls. With a shrug and a wave, she continued along the maze of corridors until she reached her bedroom in the wing traditionally occupied by the family.
*
Feeling loose and relaxed after a blissful hour in the bath, Iggy tried not to wince as she applied some antiseptic cream to the wicked-looking scratch stretching across most of the underside of her left forearm. Ignoring the soreness, she pressed her finger carefully along the length of the shallow wound, double-checking there was no remnant of the thorn which had abraded her skin.
A nasty infection had put her out of action for almost a week the previous year when a thorn tip had become stuck beneath the thumbnail of her dominant right hand. Doing anything had been excruciating, and the enforced period of rest while the antibiotics the doctor had prescribed did their job had driven her to distraction. Lesson learnt, she was scrupulous about wearing thick leather gloves whilst working in the garden, and in checking and cleaning any of the myriad little injuries she incurred.
With her damp hair secured on top of her head in a scruffy knot, she dressed in a pair of slim-leg black trousers and a loose olive-green silk T-shirt her aunt Morgana had given her for her birthday, claiming the colour enhanced Iggy’s hazel eyes, or some such nonsense. She’d never been a clotheshorse and couldn’t understand the fascination some of her friends at college had had with dressing in the latest fashion. Then again, they’d had their mothers around to whisk them off on shopping trips. Perhaps if she’d had a similar maternal bond, things might have been different. Eyeing herself in the mirror, Iggy let out a snort of derision. If there was a maternal bone anywhere in Helena Ludworth-Mills-Wexford-Jones’s body, Iggy had never found it.
Having abandoned her husband and children before the triplets’ third birthday, Iggy’s mother had flitted in and out of her life at irregular intervals. They’d last heard from her on New Year’s Eve when Helena had called to berate Arthur for cutting off her allowance. She’d had three subsequent husbands to support her, but she somehow expected their father to continue to fund her from beyond the grave. Arthur had stuck to his guns-surprising Iggy as he’d never quite seemed to give up on their mother in the same way she and Tristan had-and told her there was no more money to be had. It was to be hoped that might be the end of it and she’d finally leave them in peace, but Iggy somehow doubted it. In twenty-six years, Helena had never done anything of benefit for her children, so why would she start now?
Iggy reached for the handle on the closed door of Arthur’s study, then paused. She’d almost caught him and Lucie in flagrante when they’d been trying to keep their relationship a secret. Given the soppy way they’d been looking at each other earlier, it might be best to approach with some caution. Raising her hand, she rapped her knuckles on the aged oak, entering only once Arthur bade her to do so.
As she approached the empty chair on this side of her brother’s desk, it occurred to Iggy that Arthur had finally shed the discomfort he’d had over assuming their father’s mantle. At first, he’d seemed at pains to keep the room exactly as it had been, but though the changes made had been subtle, the study felt like it belonged to him now. The heavy marble bust of their grandfather had been moved from the corner of the desk to a less prominent position on one of the bookshelves. In its place sat a docking station for Arthur’s phone with a set of speakers attached. Raucous laughter emanated from them, no doubt from one of the many sporting podcasts her brothers were great fans of.
A large, rumpled blanket softened the classical lines of a wingback chair by the window, a stack of the red ledgers the estate’s record keepers had used for generations piled haphazardly on the floor beside it. Iggy knew they’d been sitting there since before Lucie had fled the estate and wondered what on earth her brother had said to Maxwell to prevent the butler from tidying them up. Their poor butler, a stickler for neatness, had been as devastated as any of them when they’d thought she’d left them forever, so perhaps it’d been him leaving the spot untouched like a little shrine.
‘I had several meetings with the bank whilst I was in town.’ Arthur said, drawing her attention away from the empty chair.
‘About the painting?’
He nodded. ‘Amongst other things. Although there’s still a lot of work to do, with Lucie’s assistance I was able to get an interim valuation assessment from Witherby’s for it. Needless to say, our account manager was a lot more accommodating than when I was sorting out all the probate stuff.’
‘I can imagine.’ Iggy didn’t try to keep the bitterness out of her voice. Where had the account manager been when their father had been investing in the dubious investment scheme which had brought them to the edge of ruin? Now they had a masterpiece from one of the most famous Pre-Raphaelite painters the country had ever produced, the staff at the bank must be salivating over the value of it.
‘Quite.’ Arthur lounged back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. ‘Lucie’s opened talks with a number of galleries about putting on a pre-auction exhibition here at the castle. A number of them are amenable to loaning out their Viggliorentos in return for a chance to study our painting before it hits the auction block. The bank like the idea as there’s never been a definitive exhibition of his works before, and as well as being something to draw people through the gates, it’ll help to cement the profile of the painting-and its price tag.’
‘You’re definitely going to sell it then?’ It made sense, but she couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret-though she quickly shook it off. Good fortune didn’t smile often on the Ludworths, and it wasn’t as though any of them had known the painting even existed until Lucie had followed the trail of breadcrumbs hidden in old Thomas’s long-forgotten journals.
‘I have to.’ The guilt in Arthur’s voice twisted her insides. The money from selling one item would help keep them afloat and allow them breathing space to put their longer-term plans for the castle into place.
Leaning forward, Iggy stretched her hand across the desk towards him. ‘It’s the right thing to do. Tristan will tell you the exact same thing.’
Arthur sighed. ‘I know, but it’s going to break Lucie’s heart.’ He closed his eyes for one long moment before sitting up straight and taking her hand. ‘It can’t be helped, and she’d leave me for good, I reckon, if I tried to hang onto the damn thing for her sake.’
Iggy gave his fingers a sympathetic squeeze before sitting back. ‘So, is that what you wanted to tell me? That the pressure is off with the bank?’
‘It’s more than off, they’re very much on board with our plans to secure the future of the castle and have extended me a decent line of credit.’ Folding his arms, Arthur rested them against the desk, hazel eyes a match for hers twinkling. ‘Tell me what you need.’
Taken aback by the question, Iggy frowned. ‘In terms of what?’
‘In terms of getting the gardens into shape. You’re the one with the vision, so tell me what you need to bring it to life.’
Vision? Ha! At the moment it felt like there were so many ideas competing in her head, she was stumbling around in circles and getting precisely nowhere. Lucie had uncovered some of the original plans from when the gardens had been laid out in the eighteenth century. Rather than adding the clarity Iggy had hoped they would, they’d only added to her confusion as it had become clear to her that subsequent generations had altered many of the original set pieces. Trying to recreate the original plans on a shoestring would be next to impossible so she’d been straggling from one part of the garden to the next, tidying some bits but ignoring the later alterations because she might decide to dig them up later. She wasn’t a designer, or a visionary-Tristan had got all the creative genes. ‘I don’t know where to start,’ she confessed. It was a horribly deflating admission, but one she’d been hiding from for too long.
Surprise widened Arthur’s hazel gaze. ‘I thought you had it all in hand, you always act as though you’ve got everything under control.’
She screwed up her nose. ‘When it comes to the land management stuff, I can do that standing on my head. I assumed sorting out the gardens would be easy, but it’s such a bloody mess and I’m terrified I’ll change the wrong thing and ruin it. There’s so much riding on it …’
‘Why the hell didn’t you say something? You’re not alone in this, Iggy, we succeed or fail together.’ Arthur’s admonishment stung all the more because it was the very same words she’d said to him not six months ago flying back in the other direction.
‘God, you enjoyed that, didn’t you?’ She was laughing as she said it, rubbing her chest to acknowledge the accuracy of his verbal strike.
His grin was unrepentant. ‘I did, rather.’ He grew serious. ‘Look, if you’re worried about the money, don’t be. When I felt overwhelmed with everything after Dad died, I found the only way to get through it was to finish a single task on the to-do list. Forget the big picture. Stop panicking about what you might or might not get wrong and tell me one thing right now that will make a real difference.’
He was probably expecting her to request a fancy piece of equipment, but there was really only one answer. Iggy might not have the vision to turn the gardens at Bluebell Castle from their current disaster zone to a visitor’s paradise, but someone did. ‘I need Will Talbot.’
Chapter 2 (#ua583fcff-fd26-5094-9e27-8df36c182ae2)
‘You’re on the wrong side again,’ Melody Atkins hissed at Will Talbot as he reached down to help her out of the back of the white stretch limousine their talent agency had sent to collect them for yet another interminable evening out. Film premiere, nightclub opening, reality TV show party, after a while they all blurred into the same old bollocks. A scrum in front of the banks of paparazzi, warm alcohol and half-hearted attempts at conversation shouted over too-loud music. This was their third outing in four nights, and he’d lost track of what this evening’s event was supposed to be celebrating. He’d been told to wear a tuxedo tonight, so probably a film premiere. Once the lights went down, he might even manage to fall asleep during the movie and catch up on some rest.
‘Sorry.’ Trying to rein his temper, Will stepped to the other side of the door and offered Melody his left arm. Melody hated the scar on the right side of his face, and had visibly shuddered in the past when she’d felt the puckered skin brush against her own. It was why she always insisted she stand on his left, why she’d made him practise the correct angle to pose at when they faced the banks of cameras outside these events.
At the first click of a camera shutter, her scowl of impatience shifted to a beaming smile that displayed her laser-whitened teeth. The brace she’d worn to straighten some non-existent imperfection had been removed a few days ago, leaving her free to dazzle the press pack with her brand new smile. Knowing the effort it’d taken her to get into the limo in the skintight gold sheath dress, Will braced his feet and gave her a good pull so she could propel herself upright without bending her legs too much.
‘Hold on a minute.’ Melody turned into him, lifting a hand brushing away a non-existent speck of dust from the satin lapel of his black dinner jacket. A solicitous gesture, the kind any girlfriend might make. Taking his cue, Will bent to kiss her cheek, making sure his left cheek touched hers. A barrage of camera flashes exploded, and he held himself in position a few extra moments as he waited for the shadows across his eyes from exposure to the harsh white light to fade.
Melody beamed up at him as though he held all the answers to her prayers. She might have started out on a reality show, but there was no sign these days of the sweet, pretty girl who’d won the nation’s admiration and first prize in last season’s series of Bootcamp Babes. Her naturally wavy blonde hair had been dyed a dazzling platinum almost as white as her shiny new smile and there was not so much as a hint of curl in the sleek curtain it had been ironed flat into. ‘Ready?’ he whispered, and when she nodded, he hooked his hand around her waist and steered her towards the waiting cameras.
When she’d signed with the same talent agency as him six months ago, Will had been happy to accept his manager’s suggestion that he escort Melody to a couple of events until she found her feet. Having her on his arm had proved a welcome buffer against the scores of girls who tried to pick him up-not that Will was averse to the attentions of a pretty girl-especially after a couple had sold lurid stories to the papers about him.
Once they’d got chatting, Will had discovered for himself that the smart, funny person who’d been such a hit with the public was very much the real Melody. The outside might have changed, but that was all, and in a world where appearance was everything he couldn’t blame her for submitting to the stylists’ pressures to change up her look for something sexier.
In an effort to gain control of the narrative, they’d hatched a plan one night and decided to pose as a couple. Will could keep the trophy-hunters at bay, and at the same time offer some protection to Melody from the more persistent types who wanted a favour in return for promising to assist her career. They’d let their manager in on the secret, and he’d been over the moon with the plan. They got on well enough together-he just wished she didn’t make such a big deal about the scar on his cheek.
The camera flashes were starting to give him a headache. In a practised gesture, Will turned his face as though pressing a kiss to Melody’s temple. ‘Enough, yeah?’ he murmured, low enough for her ears only.
Leaning back a little more into him, Melody spoke through her unshifting grin with a skill that any ventriloquist would be proud of, ‘A few moments more.’
Will flexed his fingers on her hip but didn’t protest as he straightened up and resumed his supporting man pose. Melody had mentioned on the way there that she had a couple of auditions lined up, so he stood his ground and gave the cameras a moody glare. It was the kind of stuff they lapped up. According to the press, Melody was the girl next door who’d tamed Will’s wild lad-about-town ways.
It was true, to some extent, but not in the way the press imagined. When he’d first got a taste of fame it had gone to Will’s head somewhat, and the gossip columns had been full of pictures of him stumbling out of nightclubs. There was even one notorious shot of him snarling at a photographer who’d shoved a camera in his face and nearly blinded him. With his scar twisting his angry expression into something fierce and ugly, he’d looked like the archetypal thug they liked to infer he was. He’d been moaning about the press hassling him that night when he and Melody had hatched their plan.
‘Stop giving them what they want, then,’ she’d said, rolling her eyes at him as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
‘What I want is for them to leave me the hell alone,’ he’d muttered into his vodka and coke.
‘You’re in the limelight now, so that’s not going to happen. Not unless you become a hermit and stay home every night, and you can’t afford that when you’re building your brand.’
‘You make it sound like I’m selling myself, but I’m just out to have a good time.’
The pitying look she’d given him had fairly withered him on the spot. It shouldn’t be possible for a woman who barely reached his shoulder to look down on him, but she’d done a bloody good impression of it. ‘You’re an idiot, then.’ With a quick move she’d switched their glasses around. ‘Take a sip.’
When he did, he’d realised she was drinking straight coke. ‘But you always act like the life and soul of the party.’
‘Exactly,’ she’d retorted. ‘It’s all an act. Nobody here cares about the real me. They want a certain image and so that’s what I give them-but I do it on my terms, enough to catch their interest, but nothing scandalous.’
She was right. He was an idiot. ‘And it’s as easy as that, is it?’
‘You know it’s not. I can’t do anything about it if some ex of mine decides to make a few quid by selling some holiday snaps, but I can manage my response to it.’ Reaching for the glass she’d swapped, she took a big gulp of his vodka and coke. ‘I won’t say it doesn’t hurt getting betrayed like that, but now I know not to trust anyone.’
‘You’re trusting me, though.’
She laughed. ‘The way I see it, this is about mutual risk. What do either of us gain out of betraying the other over this arrangement? However we spin it, people will be mad because we’re basically setting out to manipulate them.’
She had a point. ‘So, how do we play this?’
They’d laid down a set of basic ground rules, and so far it’d worked to their mutual benefit. The press loved the idea of them together, and Will had got his act together regarding drinking in public. His reputation had improved, and people had started to pay more attention to his work and less to his personal escapades. The relentless merry-go-round was growing tiresome now, and Will had started to wonder about whether it was time for him to get off the publicity ride completely. He had a good stable of clients, and several of his projects had been featured in the weekend supplements. Their order book was full for the next twelve months, with enquiries coming in daily. The balance of those enquiries had also shifted from people attracted to his celebrity, to word-of-mouth recommendations from previous clients.
Melody placed her hand over his where it rested on her hip-their agreed signal to move on-and he turned her away from the bank of cameras to the small flight of steps leading into the Leicester Square cinema. Releasing her hip, he climbed the first couple before turning back to offer his hand. Cameras flashed once more, and he urged her up the stairs, keen to be out of the glare of the spotlight for a bit.
Once inside, he left Melody chatting to a television producer she’d worked with on Bootcamp Babes and edged his way through the packed crowd towards the bar. There were servers circulating with tray of drinks, but he preferred to know exactly what went into his glass these days. Having secured two sparkling mineral waters, he wove back to where he’d left Melody in time to hear her saying. ‘Yes, Chris has mentioned the project to us, and it sounds like a lot of fun.’
The word ‘us’ had Will on immediate alert. If Melody was talking about what he thought she was, he’d wring her bloody neck. Handing her one of the glasses, he flashed her a look of warning behind the producer’s back, adding a brief shake of his head for emphasis. Blithely ignoring him, Melody took a sip of her water before continuing. ‘I think Digging Deep could be the perfect daytime show, a combination of This Morning and those garden makeover shows.’
Will downed half his drink as he counted silently to ten in an effort to hang onto his temper. Their manager had come up with a ridiculous idea for a combination gardening and chat show which Will and Melody would co-host. Whilst he showed some random celebrity or another how to make the most of their gardens, Melody would chat to them about their life and career. Although he could see the appeal of the show, Will had zero interest in expanding his current celebrity status any further. He already spent far less time than he wanted to with his hands in the dirt, it was just another distraction he didn’t need right now.
The producer nodded along with every word. ‘Right, right, that’s exactly the positioning crying out for something new.’ She glanced between the two of them. ‘And you’re such an attractive couple. The public can’t seem to get enough of real-life partnerships on screen together.’
Curling his arm around Melody’s waist, Will stared down into her eyes simultaneously hating and admiring the seeming love in her returning gaze. ‘It’s a shame I’m far too busy with my existing workload to consider taking on anything new right now, because I know Melody is just the kind of person to put others at their ease.’ Turning away from the tightness in her expression, he cast a deprecating smile at the producer. ‘Besides, I haven’t exactly got the right kind of face for television.’ He tilted his head, making sure the light would catch the thick scar across his cheek.
The producer’s smile wavered for a second. ‘I was under the impression you were fully on board with the project.’
Will shrugged. ‘Like I said, it sounds like a lot of fun. Maybe we can revisit it further down the road, but I’m still establishing my business and that’s my absolute priority for now.’
‘Yes, of course. Well, it was lovely to catch up, Melody. Speak soon!’ With a flurry of air kisses, the woman melted into the crowd.
Melody rounded on him the moment they were alone. ‘What the hell was that?’
Leaning close, he brushed the side of his face she hated against her cheek. ‘That was me refusing to be railroaded, darling. If you’re going to break the rules of our deal, I’ll push back.’
He felt her twitch against him before tilting her head back to meet his eyes. Through another brilliant smile she hissed. ‘Fine. But remember that goes both ways.’
*
Those warning words were still ringing in his ears the next morning as Will scrambled around his flat, trying to field a phone call from his assistant, Anna, while he got himself ready for the day.
‘But I thought they’d signed off the design a week ago?’ His left hand clenched around his phone. This was not what he needed to hear when he was running on empty. The film premiere they’d attended had been for the latest instalment of a high-octane blockbuster crash and smash franchise, so his chances of catching a nap during the show had been nil. Melody had insisted on them going to the after-party, a punishment for him shutting down her conversation with the producer, he was sure. Not wanting to risk a public row with her, he’d gritted his teeth and gone along, but things were going to have to change. He was not a lapdog, and he would not be treated as one, especially when all these late nights left him feeling bad-tempered in the morning.
Trying to rub his forehead to ward off the headache he could already feel threatening to build, he almost whacked himself in the eye with the training shoe clutched in his right hand. ‘Bollocks, hold on a minute,’ he said into the phone.
Sinking down on the bottom step of the floating staircase that dominated the sleek, minimalist open plan-lower floor of his two-storey apartment, he flicked on the loud speaker on the phone before placing it beside him. He was already running late and as if falling into bed after 1 a.m. wasn’t bad enough, he’d woken up on the hour, every hour, only to finally tumble into a deep sleep about forty minutes before his alarm went off.
To add insult to injury, one of the pods for his supposedly top-of-the-range coffee machine had burst, leaving him with a mug full of undrinkable brown sludge. And it had been the last pod in the box, of course. Exhausted and un-caffeinated was a dangerous combination first thing in the morning. He would have to make an emergency stop at a coffee shop on his way to his first appointment. ‘Sorry, you were saying …’ He aimed the comment towards his phone, bending over to put on his trainers at the same time.
‘They did. I had written confirmation from their PA that both Tony and Phillipa were thrilled with the design.’ Anna, his genius assistant and all-round saver of his sanity, sighed, the sound the perfect counterpoint to the frustration bubbling inside him. ‘Unfortunately, Phillipa showed the plans to her spiritual advisor who is concerned the positioning of the meditation area will generate negative energy.’
‘Oh, for fu-’
‘You already owe twenty quid to the swear jar,’ Anna cut in. He could picture the neat rows of tally bars marching across the top of her jotter pad. Will had always had a foul mouth. Growing up on an inner-city council estate it’d been a part of the daily lexicon for the residents. His manager, Chris, claimed it was part of his edgy charm, and always seemed delighted when one of the tabloids featured a bleep clip on their website of Will telling one of their cameramen where to stick their equipment. When a meme of Will’s swearing highlights had gone viral on social media, it had almost been enough for Will to vow he’d stop swearing on the spot. Almost.
He swallowed a sigh. Getting involved with Chris Maddison was just one of the many missteps Will had made in the whirlwind of the past couple of years since he’d gone from struggling landscaper to darling of the rich and famous thanks to an unexpected Best Show Garden award from the RHS at the Chelsea Flower Show.
Thankfully, he’d made one or two smart moves which went some way to negating the mistakes, most notably hiring Anna. He hadn’t been on the lookout for an assistant, fearing bringing yet another person into his professional life would cede even more of the control that had been steadily slipping through his fingers like water. When she’d marched into the tiny, scruffy office in an unfashionable part of town (he’d refused to give it up even with his star firmly on the rise), C.V. in hand, it had been on the tip of his tongue to turn her away. Behind the mask of carefully applied make-up and the cheap high-street skirt suit she’d tried to dress up with a designer scarf, he’d caught a glimpse of desperation-a hint of the wild-eyed despair that said she knew she was wasting her time traipsing from business to business, but it was that or sit at home and cry.
It was a feeling he knew all too well after being turned away from every horticultural job he’d applied for after finishing college. Too inexperienced, too late the vacancy was already filled, too rough with his closely-shaven hair and the scar on his right cheek from an altercation with a bottle which had nearly cost him his eye and his liberty-though no one had ever come right out and said the last. They hadn’t needed to; it had been written large in every disapproving glance.
Ready to give up on his dream, a despondent Will had trudged home to bemoan his fate to Mrs Tyler, his next-door neighbour and the reason why Will had become interested in gardening in the first place. She’d fed him a slab of homemade cake, listened to him whine for half an hour and then given him an envelope full of information about courses run by the Royal Horticultural Society-complete with details of their bursary scheme. Mrs Tyler had believed in him and given him the means to take charge of his own destiny, and Will had seized it with both hands.
Insanely busy and behind on several urgent commissions, Will had nevertheless found himself asking Anna to take a seat that day. Over a couple of mugs of black coffee-the milk in his fridge being several days past rancid-they’d chatted for an hour about anything and everything. Impressed by the force of her personality, Will had decided it was his turn to be someone else’s Mrs Tyler. Anna had the brains and the drive to succeed, she just needed one person to give her a chance. His instincts had proven sound and Will had never once regretted offering her a job.
At the end of the first week, she’d plonked a large glass jar on his desk together with a sliding scale of fines depending on the severity of the swear word he used. Some employers might have been affronted at her brazenness, but she could just as easily have sued him for creating an unhealthy working environment. Besides, Anna had made such fantastic inroads into the chaos of his desk and diary he was happy to modify his language-or at least pay the price whenever he failed to do so.
‘I know you’ve got your eye on that spa weekend,’ Will said, his stress factor easing, which had no doubt been his assistant’s intention when she’d interrupted him. Anna was free to spend the contents of the swear jar on whatever took her fancy, Will’s only stipulation was that it should be on something frivolous rather than practical. Embracing the idea, Anna had so far enjoyed a hot air balloon experience, dinner at one of London’s top Michelin-starred restaurants and a helicopter flight over the city. ‘I’m just contributing to the cause.’
‘And all donations are gratefully received. Now about the Cornwalls’ roof terrace …’
Picking up his phone, Will headed towards the front door, pausing only to shoulder into the battered leather jacket he’d tossed over the back of the futon he hated with a passion. It had come with the rest of the furnishings as part of a package when he’d signed the lease for the apartment in one of the swanky new developments shooting up all over Battersea. Thankfully, the bed on the mezzanine upper floor was akin to sleeping on a cloud, and it wasn’t like he ever had any guests staying who would need to sleep on the futon-cum-torture-device, so it could remain as an expensive coat rack until he got around to replacing it.
‘Can’t Nick sort it?’ Even as he was saying the words, he knew it wasn’t happening. Nick, an experienced landscaper almost twenty years Will’s senior, was another one of his few good choices. Together with a small core team, Nick turned Will’s designs into beautiful, living reality. Lucky bastard. Will was so busy building the brand and schmoozing the big clients, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had his hands in the soil.
It was churlish of him to be jealous of Nick, knowing how many people would bite their arm off for a chance to achieve Will’s level of success, but on days like today he couldn’t help but long for a simpler time when his days were spent digging and planting. But his skills with a spade weren’t what the big clients were paying for. They wanted his name, his reputation, his presence. ‘Forget I even said that. Can you contact Mrs-’ he glanced at the diary on his phone ‘-Butler and postpone?’
‘Already done.’
Will grinned as he patted his jacket pocket checking for his keys. Of course she’d already done it. ‘You’re a bloody superstar.’
‘I know, and that’s another 50p you owe me.’
‘Shame on me.’ Laughing, Will collected the rucksack he used to carry his work paraphernalia around, tugged his door closed behind him and pressed the call button for the lift. ‘I’ll call you back once I’ve finished at the Cornwalls’. Is it both of them?’
‘Just Phillipa, I think. Tony had to go away for a new project, didn’t he? I’m sure that’s what all the rush was about in the first place.’ Anna sighed, dreamily. ‘Listen to me talking about Tony Cornwall like we’re best mates or something.’ Tony Cornwall was the darling of British theatre. Though he’d made successful forays into the world of film, drawing huge box office numbers for anything with his name attached to it, the stage was his first love. He’d helped make going to the theatre cool again.
‘Yeah, you and Tony are like that.’ Will crossed his fingers and held them up before realising the gesture was wasted as she couldn’t see what he was doing.
Anna got the point, though, from the way she started laughing. ‘Best mates, that’s me and Tone. Talk to you in a bit.’ She was still giggling as she rang off.
*
As he rode down from the twentieth floor, Will contemplated what he might say to alleviate his new clients. Young and old alike adored Tony, and from what Will could tell he seemed like a genuinely decent bloke. According to the numerous features written about him over the years, Tony and Phillipa had met and fallen in love whilst rehearsing for a Royal Shakespeare Company production of Romeo and Juliet in the mid-Eighties when they’d both been 21. Unlike those ill-fated young lovers, their story had a happy ending, as Tony was often quoted as saying.
Phillipa’s star had also been on the rise until they’d decided to have a family and she’d stepped somewhat out of the limelight, choosing to stay at home from where she ran a hugely popular website dispensing advice and no-nonsense guidance on everything from child-rearing to fashion and healthy-eating. Her Life is for Living brand had branched out into a series of successful best-selling books and was always featuring in Top Ten lists in the media.
If he hadn’t already been aware of the honour the golden couple were bestowing upon him when they’d selected Will to design a luxury outdoor space on the roof of their Hampstead home, his manager had driven the point home. Sledgehammered the point home. The moment he’d caught wind of their interest, Chris had insisted Will drop everything. He’d arranged an expensive meal out, pouring praise and champagne in equal measures until Will had been all but squirming with embarrassment over the fawning display. Tony, seeming to take it all in his stride, had cut through the nonsense and answered Will’s questions with the easy charm that had made so much of the British public take him into their hearts.
A home consultation had followed-without Chris, much to Will’s relief-and he’d thrown himself into designing a garden that would work for the multiple purposes the Cornwalls needed it to. With a combination of carefully positioned planters and eye-catching set pieces like an infinity-edged water feature, Will had divided the large area into a mixture of entertainment, family and contemplation spaces.
He’d been really pleased with it, could already picture in his mind’s eye the family sitting around the rustic wooden table he’d selected for the dining area beneath a simple grid pagoda draped in fragrant strands of climbing honeysuckle, or Phillipa doing some morning yoga as the sun reflected off the still water of the infinity pool and the white rocks laid in spirals and swirls to create a zen space. And negative energy, apparently. With a snort of disgust and the hope he could keep from laughing, or losing his temper, Will exited into the underground garage and jogged towards his hybrid flatbed truck.
Chris had been appalled at his choice, telling Will he needed something sexy and sporty in line with the bad boy image his manager had cultivated for him in the press. But sexy and sporty was crap when it came to storage and Will had stuck to his guns. Wincing as he reversed out of his space, barely missing one of the many concrete pillars in the underground structure, Will considered the only thing one of the stupid sports cars Chris had pushed him towards might have had going for it was the ease of parking it.
He was just waiting for a gap in the traffic when his phone started ringing. Flicking the screen without taking his eyes off the queue of cars, he instantly regretted it when his manager’s familiar voice boomed over the car speakers. ‘Will, mate! How’s it hanging this fine morning?’
Will cringed. Was there anything worse than a fifty-something bloke trying to be ‘down wiv da kids’ as Chris liked to put it. Double cringe. Spotting half a gap in front of a shiny, silver Mercedes, Will nudged his big truck into the traffic stream, reasoning that the owner of the Merc cared more about his lovely shiny bumpers than Will did. ‘Morning, Chris. I’m a bit busy, actually, can I call you later?’
‘Sure, sure! I get it, mate, no hassles from my end,’ Chris started laughing as though he’d said something hilarious. ‘But seriously, I’ve scored you a primo invite for this evening. You and Melody are attending the album launch for Clay Givens. He’s making some noises about wanting her to appear in one of his videos.’
Unable to believe what he was hearing, Will lost concentration for a moment. The rear-end of a red hatchback loomed before him and he slammed on his brakes just in time. ‘Christ!’
Clearly mistaking Will’s exclamation of dismay for delight, Chris burbled on. ‘I know, it’s epic, right? Her profile is off the charts right now, “BB” is getting some fantastic repeat ratings now it’s available on streaming services. Maybe we can get Clay to a guest on Digging Deep! What a coup that would be.’
‘I’ve already told you I’m not doing that stupid bloody show!’ Will yelled, but he was shouting at himself as Chris had already hung up. ‘Shit!’ he banged his hands in frustration on the steering wheel, startling himself when the horn blared loudly. The driver of the hatchback in front flicked him a rude hand gesture, assuming Will was honking at him. Bloody hell. Raising his hand in apology, Will was grateful when the sat nav directed him to turn off at the next junction. This day couldn’t possibly get any worse …
Chapter 3 (#ulink_4440bbd4-5e12-5921-a921-a80b53dbcd72)
Phillipa Cornwall hadn’t seemed that bothered about the plans for the roof terrace. They’d barely spent five minutes discussing her concerns with the design before she’d left him alone up there to fetch them both a drink. She’d returned with a pot of very strong Turkish coffee and two tiny cups, only to disappear shortly afterwards with a promise she’d be back. He was starting to feel like she was jerking his chain, that this whole thing was some kind of power play. When you were as famous as she was, perhaps it became second nature to assume everyone was at your beck and call. Whatever the reason, he was starting to resent her for wasting his time about something that could’ve been addressed via a couple of swapped emails.
He was about ready to gather his things and make his excuses when her familiar, breathy voice came from behind him. ‘If you’re finished with those designs, there’s something else I’d like your assistance with.’
Jaw dropping was something he’d previously assumed was an acting exaggeration, and not something real people did until the moment he turned in his seat and saw her. Closing his eyes at the same time as he shut his gaping mouth, Will hoped perhaps he was hallucinating after the second very strong coffee he’d recently finished on a still empty stomach. He cracked open a lid and was once more greeted with the sight of his client posing against the doorway leading from the roof terrace back into the house. He might have been able to dismiss the flirty pose she’d adopted-hands clasping the frame behind her, back arched, one knee softly bent-if it wasn’t for the fact the stylish navy dress she’d been wearing when she’d greeted him at the door not half an hour previously was now pooled at her feet, leaving her clad in nothing more than a tiny, sheer black nightgown thing. Nope, not the coffee.
Clamping his mouth tight against a litany of swear words that would earn Anna a full body massage at her dream spa weekend, Will urged his addled brain to think. When he was finally sure he could speak without cursing, he opened his lips. The sound he made was somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, the kind of noise he’d only ever heard a cartoon character make and he quickly shut his mouth again.
‘I didn’t think you’d be shy, William,’ Phillipa stretched his name into a purr, which he supposed she thought was sexy, but only made him want to take a flying leap over the low parapet running around the edge of the roof terrace.
Not knowing what else to do, Will decided his only cause of action was to ignore it and try and stick to business. He bent to retrieve the sketchpad which had slipped from his fingers the moment she’d reappeared. ‘I … I think I might have found a solution to the issue for the zen space. We can turn the angle of the pool by forty-five degrees, so the water runs from east to west. You’ll be able to align your exercise mat in the same direction then, which I think was one of the main problems?’ He offered her the sketchpad, making sure to keep his eyes fixed above her chin.
With a quirk of her lips, Phillipa took the pad from him and turned into the house. He almost sighed with relief, thinking he’d found a way to navigate free of the nightmare, until she paused to cast a knowing look over one shoulder. ‘It’s too bright outside to see this properly, come in and show me what you want to do.’
There was no mistaking the message behind those words, and as Will watched her slink inside with an exaggerated sway of her hips, he wondered how the hell he was going to extricate himself from this mess. It wasn’t the first time a client had made a pass at him, though he had to hand Phillipa the prize for the most blatant seduction attempt to date.
Will blamed it on the ridiculous ‘bad boy of gardening’ image Chris had created for him. Eager, naïve, and somewhat blinded by his first taste of the spotlight, Will had allowed himself to be persuaded to play the part. It worked for chefs, after all, his manager had argued, so why not for a gardener? Embarrassing crap like this was the downside he hadn’t banked upon when agreeing to it. Taking a deep breath, he followed in Phillipa’s wake. If she persisted, he’d have to put her straight.
Somehow.
The contrast between the bright sunshine outside and the much darker interior left him disorientated for a moment. Pausing to let his eyes adjust, Will felt his heart sink as he saw the double doors leading to the master bedroom had been flung wide. Tony Cornwall had pointed it out on Will’s previous visit, saying how as soon as he’d seen the fabulous views he’d refitted what had originally been staff quarters into a luxury suite. The door had remained closed so Will hadn’t seen inside.
Right now, he wished he still hadn’t. Perching on the edge of an enormous bed, Phillipa tossed his sketchpad down and patted a spot on the quilt next to her. Will didn’t know what the term was for something larger than a super king, but this vast expanse of crisp white bedding could probably accommodate half a dozen people with room to spare. Even if she was sitting at the far edge of the bed, it will still be too close for comfort. The hounds of hell couldn’t drag him over the threshold. ‘Mrs Cornwall …’
‘Call me Pippa. All my very good friends call me Pippa.’ She patted the bed once more.
Keeping his feet firmly in place, Will crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Mrs Cornwall.’ He didn’t like the way her confident smile wavered into an expression of confusion when he stressed her formal title once more, but it couldn’t be helped. ‘The sketches are pretty self-explanatory. Why don’t you talk them over with your husband?’ Subtle, Will. ‘You can let my assistant know in due course.’
She seemed to crumple in upon herself, as though each word was sucking the confidence and vivacity out of her. How come doing the right and honourable thing could make him feel so awful? He checked his watch-not that he cared what the time was, he just needed an excuse to look away. ‘I really should be going …’
‘Are you sure you can’t stay?’ She sounded less seductive and more desperate now, and although he felt sorry for her, he couldn’t help a tinge of anger that she’d been the cause of her own embarrassment.
Fumbling for what else to say, he was saved by the bell-literally-when his phone starting ringing. He snatched it from his pocket, barely giving the unknown number a glance before he answered it. Even a marketing call would be a welcome reprieve. ‘Will Talbot.’
‘Mr Talbot? Iggy Ludworth, here. I’d like to discuss a job with you, if you’re not busy.’
He didn’t recognise the rather odd name, nor the forthright tones of the woman. His diary was blocked solid for the foreseeable future, and one half of Britain’s golden couple was currently attempting to seduce him so no, he wasn’t busy at all. Turning away from the scene before him, he lowered his voice in the hope Phillipa Cornwall wouldn’t overhear him. ‘It’s not a great time, if I’m honest. Why don’t you call my office and we can set up an appointment?’
‘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 unhappy 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 (#ulink_184b9bb0-ab71-56c2-88c9-97fd410afa07)
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 their 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.
‘It’s the only way I get any sense,’ she retorted with a quick grin. ‘I need to evict these hooligans.’ She gestured towards the dogs. ‘Give us hand, will you?’
Between the three of them, they managed to remove the dogs in short order. ‘You’d think we were locking them out in the stables or something,’ Lucie said, as she watched the dogs skulk across to the far end of the great hall where their enormous pile of cushions and blankets stretched out in front of the fireplace. Taking up most of one end of the hall, it dated back to the origins of the castle.
‘They’ll get over it,’ Arthur said as the three of them returned to the family room. ‘What are you up to?’
Resuming her spot on the floor, Iggy glanced up at him. ‘Tristan is going to help me with a plan for the gardens.’ She spread out a couple of the drawings then sat back on her heels.
Arthur hunkered down beside her. ‘You said earlier about not knowing what to leave and what to change. Show me what you mean.’
‘See, here?’ She pointed at a complicated pattern of hedges and pathways. ‘This was the original layout for the Lady’s garden.’ The most formal part of the grounds, it had once been the highlight of the gardens with its sculptured topiaries and regimented flower beds. Using her finger, she traced the central feature, a flowerbed surrounded by a ring of curlicue hedges. ‘At some point this was removed and replaced with that ugly bronze fountain.’
‘The one with the hideous dolphins, or whatever they’re supposed to be?’ Arthur laughed. ‘You used to be terrified of them when we were kids.’
Iggy gave a shudder. Like something out of a nightmare, the oddly shaped creatures spewing water from grinning jaws full of razor-sharp teeth still freaked her out. Whoever had sculpted them had clearly never seen anything that actually lived in the ocean. ‘I’d love to rip those horrible things out and get them melted down. I can follow this plan and reinstate that part of the garden, but it will take several years for the hedges to grow in properly, so it might end up looking a bit sparse and disappointing.’
‘Can’t you use mature plants?’
She shook her head. ‘It’d be better in the long run to use smaller plants that can grow together and eventually merge into what looks like one seamless plant. Bigger ones won’t create the same uniform effect.’ She sighed. ‘It would be easier to compromise by just removing the sculpture and turning the base of the fountain into a reflecting pool. I can add a few water lilies and aquatics.’
‘I think you should go for recreating the original design,’ Arthur said. ‘No one is going to expect the gardens to be perfect, Iggy.’
‘But we’re asking people to spend their hard-earned money,’ she argued. ‘We need to put on a display for them.’
‘And you will, but Rome wasn’t built in a day. Don’t you think people will be more interested in the story of how you’ve gone about the restoration? We could put up some display boards, either out in the gardens themselves, or as part of the indoor exhibitions Lucie and I are planning. Some before, during and after photos would be a great addition.’
It hadn’t really occurred to her before, but it sounded promising. ‘I suppose so, but I’m looking for ways to reduce the amount of work I have to do, not add to it.’
The door swung open to admit Tristan and their Uncle Lancelot. ‘What’s this? Have you started without me?’ Tristan joined them on the carpet whilst Lancelot made his way over to the drinks’ cabinet in the corner.
Arthur filled him in, finishing with, ‘But as Iggy’s rightly pointed out, it’ll be more work not less.’
‘I think it’s great. Especially if we’re thinking in the longer term. If we want to offer something like annual admittance passes for the grounds, for example, people will enjoy seeing how things change over the months and years.’ He caught Iggy’s eye ‘And, it gets you off the hook trying to get everything finished in time.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Think about it. Photos are all well and good, but if you leave some parts of the garden wild like they are now, the visual contrast will have even more impact. And don’t worry about the work, I’ll take on the responsibility for the displays.’ Tristan turned to Lucie. ‘Would you be able to give me a hand with the copy? Maybe a few nice quotes about the gardens if you’ve come across any in the family journals?’
Lucie beamed. ‘Oh, what a good idea! I’m sure I can come up with something.’
‘That’s settled then.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Now all we have to do is decide what you’re going to put right and what can wait.’
‘You make it all sound so easy; I don’t know what I was getting stressed out about.’ Iggy couldn’t help the hint of sarcasm in her tone. An uncomfortable silence settled over the room, making her feel awful. They were all only trying to help, and she herself had approached Tristan in the first place.
‘Come now, I’m sure no one is underestimating how much you’ve taken on with this, darling girl.’ The gentle reproach from her uncle sent heat rushing to her cheeks.
‘Sorry, I’m being a brat.’
‘No, you’re not.’ Arthur reached over to pat her knee.
‘Yes, you are,’ Tristan insisted. ‘But we love you anyway.’ He settled himself more comfortably, back resting against one of the two leather Chesterfield sofas which dominated the centre of the room. ‘Why don’t you tell us where you’ve got to so far, and then we can decide on the rest.’
Lucie curled her legs beneath her on the opposite sofa. ‘I’ve got my notebook so I’ll just listen in and make some lists.’
Iggy closed her eyes for a moment and thought about where to start. ‘Okay. We all agreed the walk we set out for the Easter egg hunt worked really well.’
The others nodded.
‘It’ll be a nice family walk whatever the season,’ Lancelot said.
‘Exactly. And there are a couple of points where we can spiral off from that straight-forward loop-down towards the lake, for example, and another one which we could link up to the existing path that runs along the boundary wall parallel with Tumbledown farm.’ She scrabbled amongst her papers and drawings until she found the large photocopy she’d had made of one of the more recent plans which showed the castle and its surrounding lands. ‘Look, I’ll show you.’
She traced an approximate loop of the route through the woods that led walkers to the replica stone circle their ancestor Thomas had created in a large glade, and back towards the castle. ‘That’s route one.’ Swapping her pen for a different colour, she drew a line leading away from the loop towards the lake and back towards a point at the edge of the Lady’s garden. ‘This could be the second one.’ With a third pen she traced a meandering path around the formal gardens which connected to the lake walk, passed up to the castle and back down again. ‘This would be an easy stroll for anyone who didn’t fancy tromping through the woods, or if they want a more strenuous walk they can then pick up this one-’ she tapped the end of the pen to the second route ‘-and head down to the lake.’
Arthur angled the paper towards him. ‘I see what you’re doing. If we try and interconnect as many of them as possible, visitors can explore as much or as little of the grounds as they want to.’
A warm glow started in her belly. He really did get it. She tugged the sheet back and drew a bold line running from the far end of the formal gardens loop and out towards the dales. ‘For the hikers.’
Lancelot leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. ‘If I can make a suggestion?’ When she nodded, he continued. ‘Rather than having them tramp all over the place, we could easily mow in a path along the edge of the gallops, encourage them to cross the park land that way.’
‘That makes sense.’ She amended the proposed route. ‘Although we’re bound to get a few people who stray.’
‘Of course, but I think if you give them the option of a path to follow, most people will use it. Most British people, anyway. We love a bit of order, form a queue and all that.’
Iggy laughed. ‘Good point. People don’t have to stick to the routes, but if we mark them clearly, it should be quite straightforward. And perhaps we should consider whether we want to offer them maps.’ She looked to Arthur for guidance.
‘I’ll have to cost it out, make sure it’s built in when we decide on an admission fee.’ He glanced up at Lucie. ‘Can you highlight that as a job for me to do?’
‘It’s on the list, don’t worry,’ she assured him, tapping her pen on her notebook.
‘And, again, we don’t have to do all of this in one go.’ Tristan pointed out. ‘We can post large maps at starting points of each of the walks and come up with a less intrusive way to mark the routes along the way so we don’t spoil the views.’ Her brothers launched into a discussion over the pros and cons of costing in everything up front versus adding value at a later date.
After a few minutes of the two of them going back and forth Iggy held her hands up. ‘These are all great ideas, and I’m feeling so much more positive than I was yesterday, but we’re getting a bit bogged down in the details. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of leaving parts of the gardens as they are. It will certainly make life easier for me.’
‘It’s a shame we can’t get one of those garden makeover shows in to do it for us,’ Lancelot chipped in.
‘How strong is that whisky and soda?’ Arthur cast a meaningful look at the amber contents of her uncle’s glass.
Tristan laughed. ‘I can’t see the BBC licence fee payers giving them the thumbs up for spending their hard-earned cash on an ancestral pile like ours.’
‘Well fine, not the BBC, but it’d be nice if you could find some way to get people to help you out.’ Lancelot sounded disgruntled.
‘It’s called money.’
Iggy coughed to cover a laugh at Tristan’s wry comment. ‘It’s a nice idea, but no one’s going to turn up and do the garden for free.’
‘Don’t be so sure about that.’ Lucie, who’d been quiet up to then, sat forward on her seat. ‘My mum loves gardening. One of the worst things about moving to our flat was her losing our lovely back garden.’
Her face clouded for a moment, and Iggy’s heart went out to her and poor Constance. Lucie and her mum had been left with nothing when her father had been arrested as a fraudster when Lucie was still a teenager. Constance had been to stay with them a few weeks previously, and Iggy had adored her almost on sight. Seeing her and Lucie together had been bittersweet, reminding Iggy of how much she’d missed out on thanks to the selfish actions of her own mother.
When Constance had taken an interest in the gardens, it had been a highlight of her visit for Iggy. ‘Phone her and tell her to come visit us again, I’m happy to exploit her for a bit of free labour.’ She was joking, of course, although Constance was welcome any time as far as Iggy was concerned.
‘But she wouldn’t see it as being exploited, she’d be over the moon,’ Lucie said, excitedly. ‘Imagine a little army of enthusiasts given the opportunity to play a part in restoring the gardens to their former glory.’
‘It could work,’ Tristan mused. ‘They get volunteers for all sorts of things-archaeological digs, people acting as guides for the National Trust around their properties, local projects to clear rubbish from canals and waterways. We could give them a few perks. We’d feed them, of course. Perhaps throw in a nice afternoon tea and a behind the scenes tour around the castle. We could call them The Friends of Ludworth Castle, or some such thing.’
Iggy looked around at her family. This was why she needed to stop and ask for help more often. It would be the perfect reason to leave some parts of the garden untouched, and offer an incentive for people to feel invested in the future of the castle. An unexpected lump formed in the back of her throat and she had to swallow around it before she could speak. ‘I love it.’
Before she could say any more, she heard a muffled thump followed by a cacophony of barking from the great hall. Arthur pushed to his feet with a groan. ‘I’d better go and see what that’s all about.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s about time for their evening walk.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ Lucie looked to Iggy. ‘Unless you still need me?’
She shook her head. ‘No, you go ahead. Now we’ve got a way forward, I’m feeling much more positive. Tristan can help me decide which sections we can leave for later restoration projects.’
Down on hands and knees. Iggy and Tristan studied the large plan of the grounds. ‘So, I definitely need to focus on the Lady’s garden and reinstating the original central design.’ She circled the area in green.
‘What about the maze? It’ll be a good distraction for kids.’
She circled that too. ‘Yes. It needs reshaping and new gravel for the pathways, but is definitely doable.’ She paused. ‘I haven’t been inside it for years so probably best to assume the benches in the centre will need replacing.’
The door behind them opened again. Glancing back over her shoulder, Iggy saw Arthur pop his head around the door. ‘Umm … Iggy? You’ve got a visitor.’
Before she could scramble up, her brother pushed the door wide to reveal the tall man standing next to him. The biker jacket he was wearing registered first. A distinctive, vintage piece with two grey bands around the upper arms of the sleeves had been paired with a plain grey T-shirt, jeans and trainers, though she’d seen photos of it worn over everything from outlandish board shorts to formal eveningwear complete with black tie. Her brain refused to compute the information it was receiving as she finally shifted her gaze higher, past the five o’clock shadow scattered over a firm chin, the rakish scar cutting into his right cheek she’d always found fascinating, and up to a pair of steel-grey eyes.
Handsome as he was on page and screen, Will Talbot was a stunning presence in the flesh. Heat rushed to her face, as well as a few unmentionable places. The connection between her brain and her mouth finally kicked in. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Chapter 5 (#ulink_166e1a7b-1bd9-5982-9e73-ab5c5e197c87)
As first impressions went, the sight of Iggy Ludworth’s bottom clad in skin-tight denim was right up there as far as Will was concerned. The tempting patch of pale skin above the waistband of those sinful jeans revealed where her top had ridden up made a damn fine second impression; the cascade of dark mahogany curls spilling down almost to meet it, a third. Before he’d even taken in the fine features of her heart-shaped face, he was more than half in love with her. In lust with her might be closer to the mark, he corrected, as he swung the backpack off his shoulder to hang conveniently in front of his body in what he hoped was a casual gesture. For a woman like this he might be willing to break his ‘work and play don’t mix’ rule. More than willing from the urgent signals the rest of his body was sending to his brain-ready and able, too. And, then she snapped at him in that glorious ice-maiden voice of hers, and Will knew he was a goner.
When the furrow between her brows deepened, he realised she was expecting him to respond. Didn’t the woman know what she’d done to him? ‘You asked for my help.’
She sat back on her haunches, making him want to sigh with regret at the loss of his view of her deliciously plump backside. ‘And if I recall our conversation from this morning, you told me in rather graphic terms that you weren’t available.’ It was wrong just how much that frosty disdain turned him on.
‘I shuffled a few things around,’ he said, shrugging like it was no big deal. He knew he was stoking her anger, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about that frozen façade of hers that made him want to smash through it and find the real woman he could sense behind the icy mask.
His team back in the office might have something to say about his dismissive attitude, too. Having raced back from the Cornwalls with his head full of those haunting images Iggy had emailed to him, they’d spent a gruelling two hours holding an emergency meeting to run through all their scheduled jobs for the summer.
Thankfully, they’d not only seen but understood his passion to abandon the roof terraces and back gardens of London for the chance to tackle something on the epic scale of Bluebell Castle. Even so, he’d needed to be convinced they had everything in hand before Will gave himself permission to follow the craving need the photos of the castle gardens had set itching beneath his skin.
A quick dash from his office to his flat to throw some essentials into a bag, and he’d been on the road. His traffic app had told him he could make it in four hours, but an accident at the Dartford crossing and some hellish roadworks on the A1 had stretched it to six. Plenty of time to debate with himself over the rashness of his actions, and more than once he’d been tempted to veer off onto a passing slip road and turn around.
As he took in the looks he was receiving-from Iggy’s barely contained fury to the amused grin from an older man sitting on one of a pair of enormous leather sofas-Will questioned once more the wisdom of acting on impulse. Showing up at this time of the evening was inexcusable, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d considered finding himself a hotel or B&B for the night and postponing his arrival until morning, but with every mile he’d drawn closer to the castle the doubts had compounded until he’d known in his gut that if he waited, he’d change his mind. The imposing stone wall guarding the castle had almost been the final straw, but then he’d found the entrance gate standing open as though in invitation and, well, here he was.
Iggy folded her arms across her chest, highlighting to him that she was as pleasing from the front as she was from the back. ‘You shouldn’t have bothered. We’ve managed to sort things out without your esteemed talents.’ She flicked a handful of that glorious hair over her shoulder, an act of dismissal if ever he’d seen one. ‘If only you’d called first, it would’ve saved you a wasted journey.’ So much ice, so much disdain in those words that another man might have withered before them.
Not Will, though.
He’d not forgotten that little exhalation she’d made over the phone, that combination of relief and self-doubt when she’d still had hope she might be able to hire him for her project. Tiny as it had been, it had been a chink in her armour none the less. Remembering it made him want to prod and push and dig until he won another glimpse of it. ‘Well, I’m here now, so it won’t do any harm to take a look, will it?’ He gestured towards the stack of plans behind her.
Shifting her weight, she moved as though to block his view of them. ‘Like I said, everything’s sorted now, thank you.’ He’d never heard anyone who could make thank you sound so much like eff you. God, she was marvellous.
Side-eyeing Iggy, the man sitting next to her butted in. ‘Bit of an exaggeration there, sis.’ Unfolding himself, he rose and offered his hand. ‘You must be Will. I’m Tristan Ludworth, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’
His informal, friendly manner told Will he had a least one ally present. Time to up the charm offensive and see if he could get the rest of them on side. ‘Cheers,’ he said as they shook hands. ‘You’ve got a hell of a place here.’
‘Not my place, as such.’ He turned to include the man who’d greeted Will in the enormous entrance hall. ‘Everything you see belongs to Arthur, here.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Hi there, Arthur, sorry to burst in on you like this.’ As they shook hands, Will’s mind raced as he worked out the relationships between everyone. Tristan and Arthur were alike enough it was obvious they were brothers, and even if Tristan hadn’t referred to her as ‘sis’, Iggy had the same colouring and striking features.
The man on the sofa was an older version of the brothers-their father, perhaps, although if the castle belonged to Arthur, more likely an uncle. Tucking his free hand in his pocket, Will apologised once more. ‘I’m sorry to just rock up like this, but I was blown away by the photos of the gardens your sister sent, and I knew I had to see for myself.’
‘We’re getting used to unexpected visitors around here.’ Arthur curled his arm around the shoulders of the pretty redhead beside him, smiling down at her as though sharing a private joke.
‘At least I told you I was coming,’ she protested with a laugh. ‘It wasn’t my fault your internet was broken.’ Having accepted a quick kiss from Arthur, she turned to Will, eyes still sparkling in amusement. ‘I’m Lucie, by the way.’
With a flush of embarrassment, Will yanked his hand from his pocket and quickly shook hers. ‘Hi, I’m Will.’
Lucie bit her lip, casting a sly glance towards Iggy. ‘Yes, yes you are.’
‘Well, we were just going to take the dogs out, so I’ll track down Mrs W, our housekeeper, and get a room sorted out for you. You’re probably tired after your drive up so perhaps we can sit down after breakfast and talk things over?’ Arthur glanced towards his sister. ‘How does that sound?’
The look on her face was decidedly frosty. ‘Fine.’
Arthur raised a brow at his sister before turning back to Will with a smile. ‘I can see about some supper for you, as well, if you’re hungry?’
He shook his head, conscious once more of just how disruptive his arrival was to these people. ‘I’m fine, honestly, although if you could point me in the direction of the kettle, I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.’ As soon as he said it, he wondered if people like this even knew where the kettle was. Arthur had already mentioned a housekeeper, and a place the size of this probably had an army of staff to fetch and carry. An image of Downton Abbeyesque servants scuttling about in neat black and white uniforms sprung to mind.
‘I’ll sort you a coffee,’ Tristan offered. ‘If you give me the keys to your car, I’ll get your bags taken up to your room as well.’
Perhaps he was too quick to judge. He hated people making assumptions about him, had been on the wrong end of enough stereotyping that he should try and avoid doing it himself. Apart from Iggy, they’d all been incredibly polite and charming so far. Retrieving them from his pocket, Will dropped his keys onto Tristan’s outstretched palm. ‘Thank you.’
‘And I’ll come out with you, Arthur. One of the mares took a knock to her leg earlier, I’d like to give it a final check before I turn in for the day.’ The older man placed an empty tumbler on a side table, then stood and approached Will. ‘I think we got lost in the introductions. I’m Lancelot. You’re that gardening chap Iggy was talking about at dinner, I gather?’
‘Lancelot?’ Will couldn’t help repeating as they shook hands. His eyes strayed to the other two men in the room. ‘Arthur … Tristan …?’
‘Yes, it’s exactly what you’re thinking,’ Lancelot said with an amiable grin. ‘Old Thomas, the ninth baronet, has a lot to answer for.’ His smile widened as he turned his attention to Lucie. ‘Although he brought you into our lives, my dear, so perhaps the silly names are worth it.’
Baronet? Wow, he really was hobbing with the nobs.
Lucie blushed, the glow of colour bringing a warmth to her pale, almost porcelain, skin. ‘Charmer.’
Clearly delighted, Lancelot bussed her cheek with an affectionate kiss.
‘You can cut that out.’ Arthur said, muscling his way between the two of them though it was clear from his tone that he was joking. All smiles, they moved towards the door.
Lucie paused on the threshold to look back at Will. ‘Welcome to Bluebell Castle, Mr Talbot. I’m so glad you changed your mind.’
Will felt his mouth twitch as the slightly odd group left the room. Lucie seemed amused at his arrival. If he could get her onside she might help him work out the lie of the land with the rest of the family.
Filing the knowledge away for later, he focused on the main sticking point in front of him. He moved to occupy the space Tristan had left, dropping to his knees beside Iggy. A blown-up photocopied map lay on top of the pile of documents. Not bothering to ask permission, he pulled it a few inches closer to study it. Looking past the various lines and coloured circles drawn on it, he tried to identify locations for the images she’d sent him.
‘Do you mind? Iggy made to move the drawing away from him, but he shifted one knee to trap a corner of the paper.
Will captured her gaze. As he’d suspected, there was a hint of uncertainty buried deep within their hazel depths. ‘Please, just let me have a look.’
Disarmed by his plea, she stared uncertainly for a moment before drawing her dark brows down into a frown. ‘What’s the point? You’ve already made it clear you think I’m trying to achieve the impossible.’ She let go of her end of the drawing, though. Was the ice melting just a fraction?
‘You caught me off guard this morning, so I might have overreacted a little bit.’ She might have overreacted a bit, too, hanging up on him the way she did, but he left that unspoken in the air between them. ‘Were the photos you sent recent? They really blew me away.’
Her scowl softened a little. ‘I took them a couple of days ago.’
‘So the bluebells are still out? I’d love to see them.’
She nodded. ‘The woods are at their peak right now. You can have a look around tomorrow morning, if you want.’ The concession, offered with a grudging lift of her shoulder, felt like a major victory. He was still a long way from persuading Iggy to let him stick around, but at least she wasn’t trying to kick him straight back out the door … for now.
Deciding not to push his luck too far, he cast around for something else to talk about, the gardens likely to be a flashpoint for her temper. ‘Lancelot mentioned someone called Thomas? Is he the reason everyone in your family’s got unusual names?’
‘What?’ The change of topic seemed to catch her off guard. ‘Oh, yes. He’s my several-times great-grandfather. He became obsessed with the idea that Camland stands on the original site of Camelot.’
Will frowned. ‘I thought it was supposed to be somewhere in the west country?’
Shifting from her knees, Iggy sat cross-legged, her body angled more towards him. ‘The most popular theories are linked to Tintagel in Cornwall and Glastonbury in Somerset,’ she agreed. ‘But there’s also one suggesting Arthur was a warlord from the north. Thomas seized on the idea, even went as far as naming his children after characters from the legends. Lucky for us, it’s a tradition that’s continued through the following generations.’ Her eye roll told him exactly how lucky she thought it was.
She was definitely loosening up now he’d steered them away from the delicate topic of the gardens, and he couldn’t resist teasing her. ‘I don’t recall Sir Iggy having a seat at the round table.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s short for Igraine.’
Her name was beautiful … unique. Much like his first impressions of her. Why she’d choose to shorten it was beyond him, though at least he wasn’t stupid enough to say that to her face. ‘I like it.’
‘Try being stuck with it for a few weeks and then see how much you like it. Half the time people don’t pronounce it properly, and nobody can spell it.’
‘Not ideal, then.’
‘Not really. And not something you’d have any experience of, with a sensible name like Will.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve been called plenty of choice things in my time, but you’re right, none of it had anything to do with my name.’ Just his behaviour. After his folks had split up, Will had gone off the rails a bit. He’d stayed with his dad, his mum’s new boyfriend not being keen on having a sullen 14-year-old around to cramp his style.
They’d done all right together at first, but the recession had hit the construction sector hard, leaving his dad short of work. To try and make up the shortfall, he’d resorted to picking up evening shifts as a taxi driver, leaving Will alone for much of the time. Never very academically inclined, Will fell into a spiral of missed homework, detentions, letters home he intercepted and threw away. Eventually he’d been skipping school on a regular basis. Hanging around the estate, he’d fallen in with a rough crowd and started drinking and fighting. Following the nasty encounter with a broken bottle, Will had ended up with a face full of stitches, a police caution and a referral to social services.
The injury had shocked some sense into Will, and he’d returned to school, only to find himself even more out of his depth. He might have drifted back into trouble had one of their neighbours not had a nasty fall. Coming home from school one day, Will had spotted Mrs Tyler sprawled on the path of her spotless little front garden. A smashed up hanging basket next to a stepladder lying on its side told him plainly enough what had happened when he rushed to her aid. Not wanting to move her, Will had called for an ambulance before retrieving a blanket and a pillow he’d found on the bed in a downstairs room-he and his dad used their equivalent one as a dining room. As he wasn’t a relative, they hadn’t let Will go with Mrs Tyler to the hospital. To this day he could still remember how small and frail she’d looked wrapped in a red blanket as they loaded the stretcher onto the back of the ambulance.
Not wanting her to come home to a mess, he’d dug around in their junk-filled garden shed for a broom and swept the soil and broken plants off the path. With his dad’s help, he’d made a trip to the local DIY-cum-garden centre next to their local superstore and he’d done his best to replace the damaged contents of the hanging basket. Returning a few days later with her wrist in plaster and a spectacular rainbow bruise on one cheek, Mrs Tyler had been delighted with his efforts and the wonky basket complete with clashing blooms of red, purple and orange had hung from the wall the entire summer.
It’d started off with a trip to the shops to pick up a few bits for her, then progressed to helping her keep her beloved front and back garden tidy while her wrist was healing. Before he knew it, Will was calling in every afternoon after school because the sweet-natured widow had this or that chore that needed doing. Will soon caught on that she was inventing little jobs for him to do, and though he wasn’t sure if it was for her own benefit or his, they’d struck up an unlikely friendship born of their mutual loneliness. When he’d confessed to her one afternoon about how hard a time he was having at school, she’d persuaded him to get his books out and helped him with his homework. Over endless cups of tea and slices of homemade cake, Mrs Tyler had slowly imbued her love of gardening in Will. In the weeks and months that followed, Will had grew up a lot. He’d apologised to his dad, and knowing Will had someone to keep an eye out for him had given his dad the freedom to look further afield for better-paying work.
The spring after they’d first met, Will decided it was time to tackle the straggly weeds and bits of rubbish littering their own front garden, and with Mrs Tyler’s help he’d transformed the space over the course of the school Easter holidays. Looking back now, two patches of brownish grass and a few pots stuffed with petunias and fuchsias was a modest start for a future Chelsea medal winner, but the sense of pride he’d experienced when his dad had come home from a few days working away to see what he’d done had yet to be equalled. They might not be a family in the conventional sense like the Ludworths, but between the three of them they’d muddled along together very nicely.
The door thumped open just then to reveal Tristan staggering in under the weight of an overladen tea tray. Forgetting his little trip down memory lane, Will jumped up to give him a hand and together they placed it down on a nearby coffee table. ‘I thought you might be peckish,’ Tristan said with a shrug as Will eyed the piles of sandwiches and cakes.
‘There’s enough here to feed an army.’
‘I’d better help you out then.’ Tristan bit into an enormous wedge of Victoria sponge.
It had been a long time since the sausage roll Will had picked up during a five-minute refuelling stop on the journey up. Lifting a sandwich from the plate, he raised it in acknowledgement towards Tristan before taking a bite. ‘Thank you.’
They munched in silence for a few minutes, Will content to watch Igraine as she gathered the drawings scattering the floor. Now she’d told him her full name, he couldn’t seem to think of her as anything else. With a supple grace which spoke of the strength gained from hours working out of doors rather than slogging away on a treadmill, she flowed from sitting to standing with the drawings bundled under one arm.
Abandoning his half-eaten sandwich, Will moved to intercept her when his phone started to ring stopping him in his tracks. Seeing Chris’s name on the screen, he excused himself and hurried into the echoing chamber of the great hall before he answered it. ‘Hello?’ Silence greeted him. He stared at the ‘Call ended’ message on the screen then noticed it said No Service in the top right. He took a couple of steps towards the front door and the phone started ringing again. ‘Hello?’
‘Whe … uck … are you?’ Even with his voice cutting in and out, it was clear Chris was very unhappy.
‘I’m in Derbyshire, looking at a new job.’
‘… byshire? You’ve stood up … elody bloody Atkins!’
Shit. In his rush to get everything sorted at work and then the journey up here, he’d completely forgotten about the last-minute invitation to Clay Given’s party. ‘I told you I wasn’t going,’ he yelled, but the phone had gone dead again.
Will was still stalking around the enormous room trying in vain to pick up a signal when the front door opened heralding the return of Arthur, Lucie and their motley assortment of dogs. A greyhound bounded over to nudge at Will’s hand, while a Jack Russell yipped and scrabbled at his calf. With the difference in their heights, it was impossible to pet both dogs at once, so Will crouched down to fuss over them both until Arthur shooed them gently away.
‘Sorry, they’re a bunch of unruly beasts.’
Having always wanted but never had a pet of his own growing up, Will was quite happy to lavish them with attention. ‘I’m not bothered, really.’ He straightened up and waved his phone at Arthur. ‘I can’t seem to get a signal.’
Arthur pulled a face. ‘It’s a nightmare around here. I’m going to sort out a signal booster before we open to the public, but it’s one of about a million things on the to-do list. You’re welcome to use the landline, and I’ll give you the Wi-Fi password so you can access your emails, hang on a minute.’ He returned a few moments later with the code scribbled on a scrap of paper. ‘The phone’s in my study …’
The adrenaline which had buoyed Will on his drive up vanished in a sudden rush, leaving him drained. The last thing he wanted was to get into a shouting match with Chris, especially in front of anyone else. He’d already caused enough disruption by showing up unannounced. ‘This’ll be great,’ he said, holding up the paper. ‘I can sort everything out with an email.’
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Sarah Bennett
Don’t miss Sunshine Over Bluebell Castle, the second book in the delightfully uplifting Bluebell Castle trilogy!Perfect for fans of Trisha Ashley, Rachael Lucas and Hilary Boyd.Book 1: Spring Skies Over Bluebell CastleBook 2: Sunshine Over Bluebell CastleBook 3: Starlight Over Bluebell CastleReaders love Sarah Bennett:“Summer At Lavender Bay by Sarah Bennett is a deliciously warm, welcoming, fun contemporary read and just perfect for a summer's day.”“Absolutely loved this book it has a great story line and the characters feel like great friends who you laugh with and cry with and really care about.”“Such a joy to read – I cannot recommend this book enough!”“Sarah Bennett always keeps me entertained from the very first page”“Five stars from me!”“This is a brilliant five star modern fiction story.”
About the Author (#ua583fcff-fd26-5094-9e27-8df36c182ae2)
SARAH BENNETT has been reading for as long as she can remember. Raised in a family of bookworms, her love affair with books of all genres has culminated in the ultimate Happy Ever After: getting to write her own stories to share with others.
Born and raised in a military family, she is happily married to her own Officer (who is sometimes even A Gentleman). Home is wherever he lays his hat, and life has taught them both that the best family is the one you create from friends as well as relatives.
When not reading or writing, Sarah is a devotee of afternoon naps and sailing the high seas, but only on vessels large enough to accommodate a casino and a choice of restaurants.
You can connect with her via twitter @Sarahlou_writes (http://www.twitter.com/Sarahlou_writes) or on Facebook www.facebook.com/SarahBennettAuthor (http://www.facebook.com/SarahBennettAuthor)
Also by Sarah Bennett (#ua583fcff-fd26-5094-9e27-8df36c182ae2)
The Butterfly Cove Series
Sunrise at Butterfly Cove
Wedding Bells at Butterfly Cove
Christmas at Butterfly Cove
The Lavender Bay Series
Spring at Lavender Bay
Summer at Lavender Bay
Snowflakes at Lavender Bay
The Bluebell Castle Series
Spring Skies Over Bluebell Castle
Sunshine Over Bluebell Castle
Sunshine 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 Bennett 2019
Sarah Bennett 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.
Source ISBN: 9780008331009
E-book Edition © 2019 ISBN: 9780008314811
Version: 2019-07-01
Table of Contents
Cover (#udc596c30-87ba-5c1a-8231-9d5a61b30d5e)
About the Author
Also by Sarah Bennett
Title Page (#u5316da51-7b1a-5221-978a-0d1346673940)
Copyright (#u0a5f5625-ca68-55cf-bc2d-1ba9f9874a2b)
Dedication (#uaf1d5dd8-6ec3-5139-aa34-7523751beac2)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
For Charlotte –
thank you for believing in me when I don’t always believe in myself
Chapter 1 (#ua583fcff-fd26-5094-9e27-8df36c182ae2)
After a fruitless afternoon fighting with the overgrown tangle of thorns all but blocking the entrance to the maze which formed the centrepiece of the long neglected formal gardens of Bluebell Castle, Igraine Ludworth-Iggy to everyone but her formidable great-aunt, Morgana-was ready for nothing more than a quiet cry in a hot shower. Like the labours of Sisyphus, trying to make sense of the mess so many years of neglect had wrought to the gardens was starting to feel like a pointless exercise. It would take months of hard work, a bucketload of money, and a team full of assistants; the first she could manage, the other two… well a girl could dream.
Shoving at the frizzy, sweaty dark snarl of a fringe haphazardly shortened with a pair of secateurs in a foolish act of frustration the previous week, Iggy had just reached the end of the pathway leading to the enormous gravel driveway in front of the castle when she heard the sound of a vehicle crunching over the stones. Frustrations and her dire need for a shower forgotten, Iggy hurried as fast as her wellies would carry her towards the battered Land Rover pulling up on the other side of the enormous circular fountain and flower bed occupying pride of place in the centre of the drive.
‘You’re back, you’re back! How was it?’ Iggy asked her brother Arthur and his girlfriend as they clambered out of the vehicle. As the new baronet, Arthur had been invited to the local primary school to give out the prizes at their speech day, and he’d taken his girlfriend along for moral support.
Though the eldest of triplets, Igraine had been passed over in the line of succession of their family’s lands and title to Arthur, the middle child, as she had the misfortune of being the wrong sex. Had it not been for the blatant sexism etched in every word of the entailment of the Ludworth Baronetcy, it might have been Iggy presenting the prizes instead of Arthur.
There weren’t many times she was grateful for the words ‘Firstborn, legitimate male offspring’, but from the harassed look upon her brother’s face, now might be one of them.
‘They all wanted to take a selfie with me, like I was some kind of celebrity,’ he said, shaking his head in bemusement at the idea.
‘Well, you are the king of the castle, so to speak,’ she teased as she followed them up the stairs. The grin he shot her told her he knew she was only joking. Arthur might hold the title, but Bluebell Castle, as the locals had so quaintly nicknamed their ancestral home, was as much hers as it was Arthur’s, and their other brother Tristan’s, too.
As she and Tristan had told Arthur in more than one showdown when he tried to shield them from the worst of their current financial woes-they’d succeed or fail together. Nine months in the same womb, followed by nigh on thirty years of unshakeable loyalty between them could not be swept away by something as stupid as which one of them got to stick the word Baronet in front of their name.
As part of their plans to secure the family finances, Iggy had recently taken on the mammoth challenge of putting their overgrown grounds to rights so they could open up the estate to the public.
Reminded once more of how she’d spent her day, Iggy eased herself from the group hug. ‘I need a shower, I’ve been battling with the brambles all day.’
‘Well, I didn’t like to say anything …’ Arthur wrinkled his nose, eyes alight with mischief.
As Iggy took a playful swing towards his head, she found her arm captured by Lucie. ‘Goodness, look at the state of you, you’re scratched to bits! I’ll go and find Mrs W and see if she’s got some antiseptic cream.’
Mrs Walters-known affectionately by all as Mrs W-was the castle’s super-efficient housekeeper who, together with Maxwell the butler and Betsy the cook, kept things running. Though staff numbers had been cut to the bone over recent years, the three of them maintained a standard Iggy found frankly breathtaking.
With a laugh, Iggy gently extracted her arm and smoothed the sleeve of her top down over the mess on her arm. ‘I’ve got a medicine cabinet full of stuff like that. A few scratches come with the territory. Besides-’ she gave the pair of them an arch look ‘-I’m sure you’ve got better things to be doing than worrying about me.’
‘Indeed we do!’ Arthur swept a giggling Lucie up into his arms. ‘Miss Kennington here still owes me several more apologies for running out on me.’ The pair’s courtship had been something of a rocky road, and it was only a few weeks since they’d resolved everything between them.
‘I said I was sorry, but I’m happy to do so again,’ Lucie murmured, in the kind of tone reserved for whispered intimacies.
And that was definitely Iggy’s cue to depart. ‘I’ll leave you two to it.’
After hurrying up the front steps of the castle, Iggy shoved open one half of the enormous studded wooden door, only to find herself besieged by a cacophony of licking tongues and wagging tails as the castle’s pack of unruly dogs charged up to greet her. ‘All right, all right, you’d think I’d been gone for a month instead of a few hours,’ she said, trying to calm them with pats to their heads and affectionate ear rubs. ‘God, you’re soppy bunch.’
She’d just managed to toe off her filthy wellies and shoo the dogs clear of the door and halfway back towards the jumble of cushions and beds which occupied the space directly before the huge fireplace dominating the back wall of the great hall, when Nimrod, one of a pair of greyhounds let out a huge bark of welcome and swerved around her outstretched hand. Bella, the other greyhound, let out a keening yap and flew after him. The pretty brindle dog adored Lucie almost as much as Arthur did. Knowing she had no chance of holding the rest of the pack at bay now Arthur’s presence had been announced, Iggy stepped out of the way to let them charge pell-mell back across the hall to greet their beloved master, and the new mistress of the castle.
Taking care not to slip on the tiled floor in her thick woollen socks, Iggy made her way to the curving staircase and began to climb, her knees aching in protest after a day spent bending and crouching in the gardens. She had no plans for the evening-like most other evenings in recent memory-so perhaps she would forgo her planned shower and indulge in a soak in the claw-foot tub which dominated her bathroom. While she was alone she could catch up on the latest gossip about her favourite celebrity, the rock star of the gardening world-Will Talbot. Though she wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it, her fascination with him went beyond his amazing skills with plants and his innovative design skills. With his close-cropped hair and a wicked scar slicing across one cheek, Will was the most attractive man Iggy had ever seen.
Tristan had been reading one of the tabloids at breakfast that morning and she’d found herself staring at her secret crush as he scowled out from the front page. She’d waited until everyone had gone before filching the paper and hiding it up in her room for later study.
Yes, a hot bath and a bit of gossip was just what the doctor ordered, she decided.
Lost in thought, she didn’t notice Arthur was calling for her until he all but yelled her name. Turning as she reached the wide balcony at the head of the stairs, she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her brother on his knees surrounded by a mass of wriggling dogs, Lucie was curled up beside him, Bella ensconced firmly in her lap. Leaning on the balcony railing, Iggy called down, ‘What’s all the yelling about?’
‘I only said your name five times, cloth-ears,’ Arthur replied, the good-natured grin on his face turning into a startled laugh when Nimrod took advantage of his distraction to swipe a lick under his chin. ‘I wanted to have a chat with you,’ he continued. ‘Can you come and join me in my study before dinner? Say about half seven?’
Wondering what could be so important he would interrupt his and Lucie’s first-night-home celebrations for, Iggy frowned, before nodding in agreement. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’
‘Not at all,’ her brother assured her, but didn’t elaborate further.
She stared down at him for a few more moments as though she might have developed a previously unknown mind-reading ability in the two weeks he’d been down in London, but he remained as opaque as ever. Knowing Arthur as she did, there was no point in pushing him to reveal something before he was ready to talk about it. Might as well bash her head against the thick stone of the castle walls. With a shrug and a wave, she continued along the maze of corridors until she reached her bedroom in the wing traditionally occupied by the family.
*
Feeling loose and relaxed after a blissful hour in the bath, Iggy tried not to wince as she applied some antiseptic cream to the wicked-looking scratch stretching across most of the underside of her left forearm. Ignoring the soreness, she pressed her finger carefully along the length of the shallow wound, double-checking there was no remnant of the thorn which had abraded her skin.
A nasty infection had put her out of action for almost a week the previous year when a thorn tip had become stuck beneath the thumbnail of her dominant right hand. Doing anything had been excruciating, and the enforced period of rest while the antibiotics the doctor had prescribed did their job had driven her to distraction. Lesson learnt, she was scrupulous about wearing thick leather gloves whilst working in the garden, and in checking and cleaning any of the myriad little injuries she incurred.
With her damp hair secured on top of her head in a scruffy knot, she dressed in a pair of slim-leg black trousers and a loose olive-green silk T-shirt her aunt Morgana had given her for her birthday, claiming the colour enhanced Iggy’s hazel eyes, or some such nonsense. She’d never been a clotheshorse and couldn’t understand the fascination some of her friends at college had had with dressing in the latest fashion. Then again, they’d had their mothers around to whisk them off on shopping trips. Perhaps if she’d had a similar maternal bond, things might have been different. Eyeing herself in the mirror, Iggy let out a snort of derision. If there was a maternal bone anywhere in Helena Ludworth-Mills-Wexford-Jones’s body, Iggy had never found it.
Having abandoned her husband and children before the triplets’ third birthday, Iggy’s mother had flitted in and out of her life at irregular intervals. They’d last heard from her on New Year’s Eve when Helena had called to berate Arthur for cutting off her allowance. She’d had three subsequent husbands to support her, but she somehow expected their father to continue to fund her from beyond the grave. Arthur had stuck to his guns-surprising Iggy as he’d never quite seemed to give up on their mother in the same way she and Tristan had-and told her there was no more money to be had. It was to be hoped that might be the end of it and she’d finally leave them in peace, but Iggy somehow doubted it. In twenty-six years, Helena had never done anything of benefit for her children, so why would she start now?
Iggy reached for the handle on the closed door of Arthur’s study, then paused. She’d almost caught him and Lucie in flagrante when they’d been trying to keep their relationship a secret. Given the soppy way they’d been looking at each other earlier, it might be best to approach with some caution. Raising her hand, she rapped her knuckles on the aged oak, entering only once Arthur bade her to do so.
As she approached the empty chair on this side of her brother’s desk, it occurred to Iggy that Arthur had finally shed the discomfort he’d had over assuming their father’s mantle. At first, he’d seemed at pains to keep the room exactly as it had been, but though the changes made had been subtle, the study felt like it belonged to him now. The heavy marble bust of their grandfather had been moved from the corner of the desk to a less prominent position on one of the bookshelves. In its place sat a docking station for Arthur’s phone with a set of speakers attached. Raucous laughter emanated from them, no doubt from one of the many sporting podcasts her brothers were great fans of.
A large, rumpled blanket softened the classical lines of a wingback chair by the window, a stack of the red ledgers the estate’s record keepers had used for generations piled haphazardly on the floor beside it. Iggy knew they’d been sitting there since before Lucie had fled the estate and wondered what on earth her brother had said to Maxwell to prevent the butler from tidying them up. Their poor butler, a stickler for neatness, had been as devastated as any of them when they’d thought she’d left them forever, so perhaps it’d been him leaving the spot untouched like a little shrine.
‘I had several meetings with the bank whilst I was in town.’ Arthur said, drawing her attention away from the empty chair.
‘About the painting?’
He nodded. ‘Amongst other things. Although there’s still a lot of work to do, with Lucie’s assistance I was able to get an interim valuation assessment from Witherby’s for it. Needless to say, our account manager was a lot more accommodating than when I was sorting out all the probate stuff.’
‘I can imagine.’ Iggy didn’t try to keep the bitterness out of her voice. Where had the account manager been when their father had been investing in the dubious investment scheme which had brought them to the edge of ruin? Now they had a masterpiece from one of the most famous Pre-Raphaelite painters the country had ever produced, the staff at the bank must be salivating over the value of it.
‘Quite.’ Arthur lounged back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. ‘Lucie’s opened talks with a number of galleries about putting on a pre-auction exhibition here at the castle. A number of them are amenable to loaning out their Viggliorentos in return for a chance to study our painting before it hits the auction block. The bank like the idea as there’s never been a definitive exhibition of his works before, and as well as being something to draw people through the gates, it’ll help to cement the profile of the painting-and its price tag.’
‘You’re definitely going to sell it then?’ It made sense, but she couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret-though she quickly shook it off. Good fortune didn’t smile often on the Ludworths, and it wasn’t as though any of them had known the painting even existed until Lucie had followed the trail of breadcrumbs hidden in old Thomas’s long-forgotten journals.
‘I have to.’ The guilt in Arthur’s voice twisted her insides. The money from selling one item would help keep them afloat and allow them breathing space to put their longer-term plans for the castle into place.
Leaning forward, Iggy stretched her hand across the desk towards him. ‘It’s the right thing to do. Tristan will tell you the exact same thing.’
Arthur sighed. ‘I know, but it’s going to break Lucie’s heart.’ He closed his eyes for one long moment before sitting up straight and taking her hand. ‘It can’t be helped, and she’d leave me for good, I reckon, if I tried to hang onto the damn thing for her sake.’
Iggy gave his fingers a sympathetic squeeze before sitting back. ‘So, is that what you wanted to tell me? That the pressure is off with the bank?’
‘It’s more than off, they’re very much on board with our plans to secure the future of the castle and have extended me a decent line of credit.’ Folding his arms, Arthur rested them against the desk, hazel eyes a match for hers twinkling. ‘Tell me what you need.’
Taken aback by the question, Iggy frowned. ‘In terms of what?’
‘In terms of getting the gardens into shape. You’re the one with the vision, so tell me what you need to bring it to life.’
Vision? Ha! At the moment it felt like there were so many ideas competing in her head, she was stumbling around in circles and getting precisely nowhere. Lucie had uncovered some of the original plans from when the gardens had been laid out in the eighteenth century. Rather than adding the clarity Iggy had hoped they would, they’d only added to her confusion as it had become clear to her that subsequent generations had altered many of the original set pieces. Trying to recreate the original plans on a shoestring would be next to impossible so she’d been straggling from one part of the garden to the next, tidying some bits but ignoring the later alterations because she might decide to dig them up later. She wasn’t a designer, or a visionary-Tristan had got all the creative genes. ‘I don’t know where to start,’ she confessed. It was a horribly deflating admission, but one she’d been hiding from for too long.
Surprise widened Arthur’s hazel gaze. ‘I thought you had it all in hand, you always act as though you’ve got everything under control.’
She screwed up her nose. ‘When it comes to the land management stuff, I can do that standing on my head. I assumed sorting out the gardens would be easy, but it’s such a bloody mess and I’m terrified I’ll change the wrong thing and ruin it. There’s so much riding on it …’
‘Why the hell didn’t you say something? You’re not alone in this, Iggy, we succeed or fail together.’ Arthur’s admonishment stung all the more because it was the very same words she’d said to him not six months ago flying back in the other direction.
‘God, you enjoyed that, didn’t you?’ She was laughing as she said it, rubbing her chest to acknowledge the accuracy of his verbal strike.
His grin was unrepentant. ‘I did, rather.’ He grew serious. ‘Look, if you’re worried about the money, don’t be. When I felt overwhelmed with everything after Dad died, I found the only way to get through it was to finish a single task on the to-do list. Forget the big picture. Stop panicking about what you might or might not get wrong and tell me one thing right now that will make a real difference.’
He was probably expecting her to request a fancy piece of equipment, but there was really only one answer. Iggy might not have the vision to turn the gardens at Bluebell Castle from their current disaster zone to a visitor’s paradise, but someone did. ‘I need Will Talbot.’
Chapter 2 (#ua583fcff-fd26-5094-9e27-8df36c182ae2)
‘You’re on the wrong side again,’ Melody Atkins hissed at Will Talbot as he reached down to help her out of the back of the white stretch limousine their talent agency had sent to collect them for yet another interminable evening out. Film premiere, nightclub opening, reality TV show party, after a while they all blurred into the same old bollocks. A scrum in front of the banks of paparazzi, warm alcohol and half-hearted attempts at conversation shouted over too-loud music. This was their third outing in four nights, and he’d lost track of what this evening’s event was supposed to be celebrating. He’d been told to wear a tuxedo tonight, so probably a film premiere. Once the lights went down, he might even manage to fall asleep during the movie and catch up on some rest.
‘Sorry.’ Trying to rein his temper, Will stepped to the other side of the door and offered Melody his left arm. Melody hated the scar on the right side of his face, and had visibly shuddered in the past when she’d felt the puckered skin brush against her own. It was why she always insisted she stand on his left, why she’d made him practise the correct angle to pose at when they faced the banks of cameras outside these events.
At the first click of a camera shutter, her scowl of impatience shifted to a beaming smile that displayed her laser-whitened teeth. The brace she’d worn to straighten some non-existent imperfection had been removed a few days ago, leaving her free to dazzle the press pack with her brand new smile. Knowing the effort it’d taken her to get into the limo in the skintight gold sheath dress, Will braced his feet and gave her a good pull so she could propel herself upright without bending her legs too much.
‘Hold on a minute.’ Melody turned into him, lifting a hand brushing away a non-existent speck of dust from the satin lapel of his black dinner jacket. A solicitous gesture, the kind any girlfriend might make. Taking his cue, Will bent to kiss her cheek, making sure his left cheek touched hers. A barrage of camera flashes exploded, and he held himself in position a few extra moments as he waited for the shadows across his eyes from exposure to the harsh white light to fade.
Melody beamed up at him as though he held all the answers to her prayers. She might have started out on a reality show, but there was no sign these days of the sweet, pretty girl who’d won the nation’s admiration and first prize in last season’s series of Bootcamp Babes. Her naturally wavy blonde hair had been dyed a dazzling platinum almost as white as her shiny new smile and there was not so much as a hint of curl in the sleek curtain it had been ironed flat into. ‘Ready?’ he whispered, and when she nodded, he hooked his hand around her waist and steered her towards the waiting cameras.
When she’d signed with the same talent agency as him six months ago, Will had been happy to accept his manager’s suggestion that he escort Melody to a couple of events until she found her feet. Having her on his arm had proved a welcome buffer against the scores of girls who tried to pick him up-not that Will was averse to the attentions of a pretty girl-especially after a couple had sold lurid stories to the papers about him.
Once they’d got chatting, Will had discovered for himself that the smart, funny person who’d been such a hit with the public was very much the real Melody. The outside might have changed, but that was all, and in a world where appearance was everything he couldn’t blame her for submitting to the stylists’ pressures to change up her look for something sexier.
In an effort to gain control of the narrative, they’d hatched a plan one night and decided to pose as a couple. Will could keep the trophy-hunters at bay, and at the same time offer some protection to Melody from the more persistent types who wanted a favour in return for promising to assist her career. They’d let their manager in on the secret, and he’d been over the moon with the plan. They got on well enough together-he just wished she didn’t make such a big deal about the scar on his cheek.
The camera flashes were starting to give him a headache. In a practised gesture, Will turned his face as though pressing a kiss to Melody’s temple. ‘Enough, yeah?’ he murmured, low enough for her ears only.
Leaning back a little more into him, Melody spoke through her unshifting grin with a skill that any ventriloquist would be proud of, ‘A few moments more.’
Will flexed his fingers on her hip but didn’t protest as he straightened up and resumed his supporting man pose. Melody had mentioned on the way there that she had a couple of auditions lined up, so he stood his ground and gave the cameras a moody glare. It was the kind of stuff they lapped up. According to the press, Melody was the girl next door who’d tamed Will’s wild lad-about-town ways.
It was true, to some extent, but not in the way the press imagined. When he’d first got a taste of fame it had gone to Will’s head somewhat, and the gossip columns had been full of pictures of him stumbling out of nightclubs. There was even one notorious shot of him snarling at a photographer who’d shoved a camera in his face and nearly blinded him. With his scar twisting his angry expression into something fierce and ugly, he’d looked like the archetypal thug they liked to infer he was. He’d been moaning about the press hassling him that night when he and Melody had hatched their plan.
‘Stop giving them what they want, then,’ she’d said, rolling her eyes at him as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
‘What I want is for them to leave me the hell alone,’ he’d muttered into his vodka and coke.
‘You’re in the limelight now, so that’s not going to happen. Not unless you become a hermit and stay home every night, and you can’t afford that when you’re building your brand.’
‘You make it sound like I’m selling myself, but I’m just out to have a good time.’
The pitying look she’d given him had fairly withered him on the spot. It shouldn’t be possible for a woman who barely reached his shoulder to look down on him, but she’d done a bloody good impression of it. ‘You’re an idiot, then.’ With a quick move she’d switched their glasses around. ‘Take a sip.’
When he did, he’d realised she was drinking straight coke. ‘But you always act like the life and soul of the party.’
‘Exactly,’ she’d retorted. ‘It’s all an act. Nobody here cares about the real me. They want a certain image and so that’s what I give them-but I do it on my terms, enough to catch their interest, but nothing scandalous.’
She was right. He was an idiot. ‘And it’s as easy as that, is it?’
‘You know it’s not. I can’t do anything about it if some ex of mine decides to make a few quid by selling some holiday snaps, but I can manage my response to it.’ Reaching for the glass she’d swapped, she took a big gulp of his vodka and coke. ‘I won’t say it doesn’t hurt getting betrayed like that, but now I know not to trust anyone.’
‘You’re trusting me, though.’
She laughed. ‘The way I see it, this is about mutual risk. What do either of us gain out of betraying the other over this arrangement? However we spin it, people will be mad because we’re basically setting out to manipulate them.’
She had a point. ‘So, how do we play this?’
They’d laid down a set of basic ground rules, and so far it’d worked to their mutual benefit. The press loved the idea of them together, and Will had got his act together regarding drinking in public. His reputation had improved, and people had started to pay more attention to his work and less to his personal escapades. The relentless merry-go-round was growing tiresome now, and Will had started to wonder about whether it was time for him to get off the publicity ride completely. He had a good stable of clients, and several of his projects had been featured in the weekend supplements. Their order book was full for the next twelve months, with enquiries coming in daily. The balance of those enquiries had also shifted from people attracted to his celebrity, to word-of-mouth recommendations from previous clients.
Melody placed her hand over his where it rested on her hip-their agreed signal to move on-and he turned her away from the bank of cameras to the small flight of steps leading into the Leicester Square cinema. Releasing her hip, he climbed the first couple before turning back to offer his hand. Cameras flashed once more, and he urged her up the stairs, keen to be out of the glare of the spotlight for a bit.
Once inside, he left Melody chatting to a television producer she’d worked with on Bootcamp Babes and edged his way through the packed crowd towards the bar. There were servers circulating with tray of drinks, but he preferred to know exactly what went into his glass these days. Having secured two sparkling mineral waters, he wove back to where he’d left Melody in time to hear her saying. ‘Yes, Chris has mentioned the project to us, and it sounds like a lot of fun.’
The word ‘us’ had Will on immediate alert. If Melody was talking about what he thought she was, he’d wring her bloody neck. Handing her one of the glasses, he flashed her a look of warning behind the producer’s back, adding a brief shake of his head for emphasis. Blithely ignoring him, Melody took a sip of her water before continuing. ‘I think Digging Deep could be the perfect daytime show, a combination of This Morning and those garden makeover shows.’
Will downed half his drink as he counted silently to ten in an effort to hang onto his temper. Their manager had come up with a ridiculous idea for a combination gardening and chat show which Will and Melody would co-host. Whilst he showed some random celebrity or another how to make the most of their gardens, Melody would chat to them about their life and career. Although he could see the appeal of the show, Will had zero interest in expanding his current celebrity status any further. He already spent far less time than he wanted to with his hands in the dirt, it was just another distraction he didn’t need right now.
The producer nodded along with every word. ‘Right, right, that’s exactly the positioning crying out for something new.’ She glanced between the two of them. ‘And you’re such an attractive couple. The public can’t seem to get enough of real-life partnerships on screen together.’
Curling his arm around Melody’s waist, Will stared down into her eyes simultaneously hating and admiring the seeming love in her returning gaze. ‘It’s a shame I’m far too busy with my existing workload to consider taking on anything new right now, because I know Melody is just the kind of person to put others at their ease.’ Turning away from the tightness in her expression, he cast a deprecating smile at the producer. ‘Besides, I haven’t exactly got the right kind of face for television.’ He tilted his head, making sure the light would catch the thick scar across his cheek.
The producer’s smile wavered for a second. ‘I was under the impression you were fully on board with the project.’
Will shrugged. ‘Like I said, it sounds like a lot of fun. Maybe we can revisit it further down the road, but I’m still establishing my business and that’s my absolute priority for now.’
‘Yes, of course. Well, it was lovely to catch up, Melody. Speak soon!’ With a flurry of air kisses, the woman melted into the crowd.
Melody rounded on him the moment they were alone. ‘What the hell was that?’
Leaning close, he brushed the side of his face she hated against her cheek. ‘That was me refusing to be railroaded, darling. If you’re going to break the rules of our deal, I’ll push back.’
He felt her twitch against him before tilting her head back to meet his eyes. Through another brilliant smile she hissed. ‘Fine. But remember that goes both ways.’
*
Those warning words were still ringing in his ears the next morning as Will scrambled around his flat, trying to field a phone call from his assistant, Anna, while he got himself ready for the day.
‘But I thought they’d signed off the design a week ago?’ His left hand clenched around his phone. This was not what he needed to hear when he was running on empty. The film premiere they’d attended had been for the latest instalment of a high-octane blockbuster crash and smash franchise, so his chances of catching a nap during the show had been nil. Melody had insisted on them going to the after-party, a punishment for him shutting down her conversation with the producer, he was sure. Not wanting to risk a public row with her, he’d gritted his teeth and gone along, but things were going to have to change. He was not a lapdog, and he would not be treated as one, especially when all these late nights left him feeling bad-tempered in the morning.
Trying to rub his forehead to ward off the headache he could already feel threatening to build, he almost whacked himself in the eye with the training shoe clutched in his right hand. ‘Bollocks, hold on a minute,’ he said into the phone.
Sinking down on the bottom step of the floating staircase that dominated the sleek, minimalist open plan-lower floor of his two-storey apartment, he flicked on the loud speaker on the phone before placing it beside him. He was already running late and as if falling into bed after 1 a.m. wasn’t bad enough, he’d woken up on the hour, every hour, only to finally tumble into a deep sleep about forty minutes before his alarm went off.
To add insult to injury, one of the pods for his supposedly top-of-the-range coffee machine had burst, leaving him with a mug full of undrinkable brown sludge. And it had been the last pod in the box, of course. Exhausted and un-caffeinated was a dangerous combination first thing in the morning. He would have to make an emergency stop at a coffee shop on his way to his first appointment. ‘Sorry, you were saying …’ He aimed the comment towards his phone, bending over to put on his trainers at the same time.
‘They did. I had written confirmation from their PA that both Tony and Phillipa were thrilled with the design.’ Anna, his genius assistant and all-round saver of his sanity, sighed, the sound the perfect counterpoint to the frustration bubbling inside him. ‘Unfortunately, Phillipa showed the plans to her spiritual advisor who is concerned the positioning of the meditation area will generate negative energy.’
‘Oh, for fu-’
‘You already owe twenty quid to the swear jar,’ Anna cut in. He could picture the neat rows of tally bars marching across the top of her jotter pad. Will had always had a foul mouth. Growing up on an inner-city council estate it’d been a part of the daily lexicon for the residents. His manager, Chris, claimed it was part of his edgy charm, and always seemed delighted when one of the tabloids featured a bleep clip on their website of Will telling one of their cameramen where to stick their equipment. When a meme of Will’s swearing highlights had gone viral on social media, it had almost been enough for Will to vow he’d stop swearing on the spot. Almost.
He swallowed a sigh. Getting involved with Chris Maddison was just one of the many missteps Will had made in the whirlwind of the past couple of years since he’d gone from struggling landscaper to darling of the rich and famous thanks to an unexpected Best Show Garden award from the RHS at the Chelsea Flower Show.
Thankfully, he’d made one or two smart moves which went some way to negating the mistakes, most notably hiring Anna. He hadn’t been on the lookout for an assistant, fearing bringing yet another person into his professional life would cede even more of the control that had been steadily slipping through his fingers like water. When she’d marched into the tiny, scruffy office in an unfashionable part of town (he’d refused to give it up even with his star firmly on the rise), C.V. in hand, it had been on the tip of his tongue to turn her away. Behind the mask of carefully applied make-up and the cheap high-street skirt suit she’d tried to dress up with a designer scarf, he’d caught a glimpse of desperation-a hint of the wild-eyed despair that said she knew she was wasting her time traipsing from business to business, but it was that or sit at home and cry.
It was a feeling he knew all too well after being turned away from every horticultural job he’d applied for after finishing college. Too inexperienced, too late the vacancy was already filled, too rough with his closely-shaven hair and the scar on his right cheek from an altercation with a bottle which had nearly cost him his eye and his liberty-though no one had ever come right out and said the last. They hadn’t needed to; it had been written large in every disapproving glance.
Ready to give up on his dream, a despondent Will had trudged home to bemoan his fate to Mrs Tyler, his next-door neighbour and the reason why Will had become interested in gardening in the first place. She’d fed him a slab of homemade cake, listened to him whine for half an hour and then given him an envelope full of information about courses run by the Royal Horticultural Society-complete with details of their bursary scheme. Mrs Tyler had believed in him and given him the means to take charge of his own destiny, and Will had seized it with both hands.
Insanely busy and behind on several urgent commissions, Will had nevertheless found himself asking Anna to take a seat that day. Over a couple of mugs of black coffee-the milk in his fridge being several days past rancid-they’d chatted for an hour about anything and everything. Impressed by the force of her personality, Will had decided it was his turn to be someone else’s Mrs Tyler. Anna had the brains and the drive to succeed, she just needed one person to give her a chance. His instincts had proven sound and Will had never once regretted offering her a job.
At the end of the first week, she’d plonked a large glass jar on his desk together with a sliding scale of fines depending on the severity of the swear word he used. Some employers might have been affronted at her brazenness, but she could just as easily have sued him for creating an unhealthy working environment. Besides, Anna had made such fantastic inroads into the chaos of his desk and diary he was happy to modify his language-or at least pay the price whenever he failed to do so.
‘I know you’ve got your eye on that spa weekend,’ Will said, his stress factor easing, which had no doubt been his assistant’s intention when she’d interrupted him. Anna was free to spend the contents of the swear jar on whatever took her fancy, Will’s only stipulation was that it should be on something frivolous rather than practical. Embracing the idea, Anna had so far enjoyed a hot air balloon experience, dinner at one of London’s top Michelin-starred restaurants and a helicopter flight over the city. ‘I’m just contributing to the cause.’
‘And all donations are gratefully received. Now about the Cornwalls’ roof terrace …’
Picking up his phone, Will headed towards the front door, pausing only to shoulder into the battered leather jacket he’d tossed over the back of the futon he hated with a passion. It had come with the rest of the furnishings as part of a package when he’d signed the lease for the apartment in one of the swanky new developments shooting up all over Battersea. Thankfully, the bed on the mezzanine upper floor was akin to sleeping on a cloud, and it wasn’t like he ever had any guests staying who would need to sleep on the futon-cum-torture-device, so it could remain as an expensive coat rack until he got around to replacing it.
‘Can’t Nick sort it?’ Even as he was saying the words, he knew it wasn’t happening. Nick, an experienced landscaper almost twenty years Will’s senior, was another one of his few good choices. Together with a small core team, Nick turned Will’s designs into beautiful, living reality. Lucky bastard. Will was so busy building the brand and schmoozing the big clients, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had his hands in the soil.
It was churlish of him to be jealous of Nick, knowing how many people would bite their arm off for a chance to achieve Will’s level of success, but on days like today he couldn’t help but long for a simpler time when his days were spent digging and planting. But his skills with a spade weren’t what the big clients were paying for. They wanted his name, his reputation, his presence. ‘Forget I even said that. Can you contact Mrs-’ he glanced at the diary on his phone ‘-Butler and postpone?’
‘Already done.’
Will grinned as he patted his jacket pocket checking for his keys. Of course she’d already done it. ‘You’re a bloody superstar.’
‘I know, and that’s another 50p you owe me.’
‘Shame on me.’ Laughing, Will collected the rucksack he used to carry his work paraphernalia around, tugged his door closed behind him and pressed the call button for the lift. ‘I’ll call you back once I’ve finished at the Cornwalls’. Is it both of them?’
‘Just Phillipa, I think. Tony had to go away for a new project, didn’t he? I’m sure that’s what all the rush was about in the first place.’ Anna sighed, dreamily. ‘Listen to me talking about Tony Cornwall like we’re best mates or something.’ Tony Cornwall was the darling of British theatre. Though he’d made successful forays into the world of film, drawing huge box office numbers for anything with his name attached to it, the stage was his first love. He’d helped make going to the theatre cool again.
‘Yeah, you and Tony are like that.’ Will crossed his fingers and held them up before realising the gesture was wasted as she couldn’t see what he was doing.
Anna got the point, though, from the way she started laughing. ‘Best mates, that’s me and Tone. Talk to you in a bit.’ She was still giggling as she rang off.
*
As he rode down from the twentieth floor, Will contemplated what he might say to alleviate his new clients. Young and old alike adored Tony, and from what Will could tell he seemed like a genuinely decent bloke. According to the numerous features written about him over the years, Tony and Phillipa had met and fallen in love whilst rehearsing for a Royal Shakespeare Company production of Romeo and Juliet in the mid-Eighties when they’d both been 21. Unlike those ill-fated young lovers, their story had a happy ending, as Tony was often quoted as saying.
Phillipa’s star had also been on the rise until they’d decided to have a family and she’d stepped somewhat out of the limelight, choosing to stay at home from where she ran a hugely popular website dispensing advice and no-nonsense guidance on everything from child-rearing to fashion and healthy-eating. Her Life is for Living brand had branched out into a series of successful best-selling books and was always featuring in Top Ten lists in the media.
If he hadn’t already been aware of the honour the golden couple were bestowing upon him when they’d selected Will to design a luxury outdoor space on the roof of their Hampstead home, his manager had driven the point home. Sledgehammered the point home. The moment he’d caught wind of their interest, Chris had insisted Will drop everything. He’d arranged an expensive meal out, pouring praise and champagne in equal measures until Will had been all but squirming with embarrassment over the fawning display. Tony, seeming to take it all in his stride, had cut through the nonsense and answered Will’s questions with the easy charm that had made so much of the British public take him into their hearts.
A home consultation had followed-without Chris, much to Will’s relief-and he’d thrown himself into designing a garden that would work for the multiple purposes the Cornwalls needed it to. With a combination of carefully positioned planters and eye-catching set pieces like an infinity-edged water feature, Will had divided the large area into a mixture of entertainment, family and contemplation spaces.
He’d been really pleased with it, could already picture in his mind’s eye the family sitting around the rustic wooden table he’d selected for the dining area beneath a simple grid pagoda draped in fragrant strands of climbing honeysuckle, or Phillipa doing some morning yoga as the sun reflected off the still water of the infinity pool and the white rocks laid in spirals and swirls to create a zen space. And negative energy, apparently. With a snort of disgust and the hope he could keep from laughing, or losing his temper, Will exited into the underground garage and jogged towards his hybrid flatbed truck.
Chris had been appalled at his choice, telling Will he needed something sexy and sporty in line with the bad boy image his manager had cultivated for him in the press. But sexy and sporty was crap when it came to storage and Will had stuck to his guns. Wincing as he reversed out of his space, barely missing one of the many concrete pillars in the underground structure, Will considered the only thing one of the stupid sports cars Chris had pushed him towards might have had going for it was the ease of parking it.
He was just waiting for a gap in the traffic when his phone started ringing. Flicking the screen without taking his eyes off the queue of cars, he instantly regretted it when his manager’s familiar voice boomed over the car speakers. ‘Will, mate! How’s it hanging this fine morning?’
Will cringed. Was there anything worse than a fifty-something bloke trying to be ‘down wiv da kids’ as Chris liked to put it. Double cringe. Spotting half a gap in front of a shiny, silver Mercedes, Will nudged his big truck into the traffic stream, reasoning that the owner of the Merc cared more about his lovely shiny bumpers than Will did. ‘Morning, Chris. I’m a bit busy, actually, can I call you later?’
‘Sure, sure! I get it, mate, no hassles from my end,’ Chris started laughing as though he’d said something hilarious. ‘But seriously, I’ve scored you a primo invite for this evening. You and Melody are attending the album launch for Clay Givens. He’s making some noises about wanting her to appear in one of his videos.’
Unable to believe what he was hearing, Will lost concentration for a moment. The rear-end of a red hatchback loomed before him and he slammed on his brakes just in time. ‘Christ!’
Clearly mistaking Will’s exclamation of dismay for delight, Chris burbled on. ‘I know, it’s epic, right? Her profile is off the charts right now, “BB” is getting some fantastic repeat ratings now it’s available on streaming services. Maybe we can get Clay to a guest on Digging Deep! What a coup that would be.’
‘I’ve already told you I’m not doing that stupid bloody show!’ Will yelled, but he was shouting at himself as Chris had already hung up. ‘Shit!’ he banged his hands in frustration on the steering wheel, startling himself when the horn blared loudly. The driver of the hatchback in front flicked him a rude hand gesture, assuming Will was honking at him. Bloody hell. Raising his hand in apology, Will was grateful when the sat nav directed him to turn off at the next junction. This day couldn’t possibly get any worse …
Chapter 3 (#ulink_4440bbd4-5e12-5921-a921-a80b53dbcd72)
Phillipa Cornwall hadn’t seemed that bothered about the plans for the roof terrace. They’d barely spent five minutes discussing her concerns with the design before she’d left him alone up there to fetch them both a drink. She’d returned with a pot of very strong Turkish coffee and two tiny cups, only to disappear shortly afterwards with a promise she’d be back. He was starting to feel like she was jerking his chain, that this whole thing was some kind of power play. When you were as famous as she was, perhaps it became second nature to assume everyone was at your beck and call. Whatever the reason, he was starting to resent her for wasting his time about something that could’ve been addressed via a couple of swapped emails.
He was about ready to gather his things and make his excuses when her familiar, breathy voice came from behind him. ‘If you’re finished with those designs, there’s something else I’d like your assistance with.’
Jaw dropping was something he’d previously assumed was an acting exaggeration, and not something real people did until the moment he turned in his seat and saw her. Closing his eyes at the same time as he shut his gaping mouth, Will hoped perhaps he was hallucinating after the second very strong coffee he’d recently finished on a still empty stomach. He cracked open a lid and was once more greeted with the sight of his client posing against the doorway leading from the roof terrace back into the house. He might have been able to dismiss the flirty pose she’d adopted-hands clasping the frame behind her, back arched, one knee softly bent-if it wasn’t for the fact the stylish navy dress she’d been wearing when she’d greeted him at the door not half an hour previously was now pooled at her feet, leaving her clad in nothing more than a tiny, sheer black nightgown thing. Nope, not the coffee.
Clamping his mouth tight against a litany of swear words that would earn Anna a full body massage at her dream spa weekend, Will urged his addled brain to think. When he was finally sure he could speak without cursing, he opened his lips. The sound he made was somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, the kind of noise he’d only ever heard a cartoon character make and he quickly shut his mouth again.
‘I didn’t think you’d be shy, William,’ Phillipa stretched his name into a purr, which he supposed she thought was sexy, but only made him want to take a flying leap over the low parapet running around the edge of the roof terrace.
Not knowing what else to do, Will decided his only cause of action was to ignore it and try and stick to business. He bent to retrieve the sketchpad which had slipped from his fingers the moment she’d reappeared. ‘I … I think I might have found a solution to the issue for the zen space. We can turn the angle of the pool by forty-five degrees, so the water runs from east to west. You’ll be able to align your exercise mat in the same direction then, which I think was one of the main problems?’ He offered her the sketchpad, making sure to keep his eyes fixed above her chin.
With a quirk of her lips, Phillipa took the pad from him and turned into the house. He almost sighed with relief, thinking he’d found a way to navigate free of the nightmare, until she paused to cast a knowing look over one shoulder. ‘It’s too bright outside to see this properly, come in and show me what you want to do.’
There was no mistaking the message behind those words, and as Will watched her slink inside with an exaggerated sway of her hips, he wondered how the hell he was going to extricate himself from this mess. It wasn’t the first time a client had made a pass at him, though he had to hand Phillipa the prize for the most blatant seduction attempt to date.
Will blamed it on the ridiculous ‘bad boy of gardening’ image Chris had created for him. Eager, naïve, and somewhat blinded by his first taste of the spotlight, Will had allowed himself to be persuaded to play the part. It worked for chefs, after all, his manager had argued, so why not for a gardener? Embarrassing crap like this was the downside he hadn’t banked upon when agreeing to it. Taking a deep breath, he followed in Phillipa’s wake. If she persisted, he’d have to put her straight.
Somehow.
The contrast between the bright sunshine outside and the much darker interior left him disorientated for a moment. Pausing to let his eyes adjust, Will felt his heart sink as he saw the double doors leading to the master bedroom had been flung wide. Tony Cornwall had pointed it out on Will’s previous visit, saying how as soon as he’d seen the fabulous views he’d refitted what had originally been staff quarters into a luxury suite. The door had remained closed so Will hadn’t seen inside.
Right now, he wished he still hadn’t. Perching on the edge of an enormous bed, Phillipa tossed his sketchpad down and patted a spot on the quilt next to her. Will didn’t know what the term was for something larger than a super king, but this vast expanse of crisp white bedding could probably accommodate half a dozen people with room to spare. Even if she was sitting at the far edge of the bed, it will still be too close for comfort. The hounds of hell couldn’t drag him over the threshold. ‘Mrs Cornwall …’
‘Call me Pippa. All my very good friends call me Pippa.’ She patted the bed once more.
Keeping his feet firmly in place, Will crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Mrs Cornwall.’ He didn’t like the way her confident smile wavered into an expression of confusion when he stressed her formal title once more, but it couldn’t be helped. ‘The sketches are pretty self-explanatory. Why don’t you talk them over with your husband?’ Subtle, Will. ‘You can let my assistant know in due course.’
She seemed to crumple in upon herself, as though each word was sucking the confidence and vivacity out of her. How come doing the right and honourable thing could make him feel so awful? He checked his watch-not that he cared what the time was, he just needed an excuse to look away. ‘I really should be going …’
‘Are you sure you can’t stay?’ She sounded less seductive and more desperate now, and although he felt sorry for her, he couldn’t help a tinge of anger that she’d been the cause of her own embarrassment.
Fumbling for what else to say, he was saved by the bell-literally-when his phone starting ringing. He snatched it from his pocket, barely giving the unknown number a glance before he answered it. Even a marketing call would be a welcome reprieve. ‘Will Talbot.’
‘Mr Talbot? Iggy Ludworth, here. I’d like to discuss a job with you, if you’re not busy.’
He didn’t recognise the rather odd name, nor the forthright tones of the woman. His diary was blocked solid for the foreseeable future, and one half of Britain’s golden couple was currently attempting to seduce him so no, he wasn’t busy at all. Turning away from the scene before him, he lowered his voice in the hope Phillipa Cornwall wouldn’t overhear him. ‘It’s not a great time, if I’m honest. Why don’t you call my office and we can set up an appointment?’
‘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 unhappy 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 (#ulink_184b9bb0-ab71-56c2-88c9-97fd410afa07)
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 their 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.
‘It’s the only way I get any sense,’ she retorted with a quick grin. ‘I need to evict these hooligans.’ She gestured towards the dogs. ‘Give us hand, will you?’
Between the three of them, they managed to remove the dogs in short order. ‘You’d think we were locking them out in the stables or something,’ Lucie said, as she watched the dogs skulk across to the far end of the great hall where their enormous pile of cushions and blankets stretched out in front of the fireplace. Taking up most of one end of the hall, it dated back to the origins of the castle.
‘They’ll get over it,’ Arthur said as the three of them returned to the family room. ‘What are you up to?’
Resuming her spot on the floor, Iggy glanced up at him. ‘Tristan is going to help me with a plan for the gardens.’ She spread out a couple of the drawings then sat back on her heels.
Arthur hunkered down beside her. ‘You said earlier about not knowing what to leave and what to change. Show me what you mean.’
‘See, here?’ She pointed at a complicated pattern of hedges and pathways. ‘This was the original layout for the Lady’s garden.’ The most formal part of the grounds, it had once been the highlight of the gardens with its sculptured topiaries and regimented flower beds. Using her finger, she traced the central feature, a flowerbed surrounded by a ring of curlicue hedges. ‘At some point this was removed and replaced with that ugly bronze fountain.’
‘The one with the hideous dolphins, or whatever they’re supposed to be?’ Arthur laughed. ‘You used to be terrified of them when we were kids.’
Iggy gave a shudder. Like something out of a nightmare, the oddly shaped creatures spewing water from grinning jaws full of razor-sharp teeth still freaked her out. Whoever had sculpted them had clearly never seen anything that actually lived in the ocean. ‘I’d love to rip those horrible things out and get them melted down. I can follow this plan and reinstate that part of the garden, but it will take several years for the hedges to grow in properly, so it might end up looking a bit sparse and disappointing.’
‘Can’t you use mature plants?’
She shook her head. ‘It’d be better in the long run to use smaller plants that can grow together and eventually merge into what looks like one seamless plant. Bigger ones won’t create the same uniform effect.’ She sighed. ‘It would be easier to compromise by just removing the sculpture and turning the base of the fountain into a reflecting pool. I can add a few water lilies and aquatics.’
‘I think you should go for recreating the original design,’ Arthur said. ‘No one is going to expect the gardens to be perfect, Iggy.’
‘But we’re asking people to spend their hard-earned money,’ she argued. ‘We need to put on a display for them.’
‘And you will, but Rome wasn’t built in a day. Don’t you think people will be more interested in the story of how you’ve gone about the restoration? We could put up some display boards, either out in the gardens themselves, or as part of the indoor exhibitions Lucie and I are planning. Some before, during and after photos would be a great addition.’
It hadn’t really occurred to her before, but it sounded promising. ‘I suppose so, but I’m looking for ways to reduce the amount of work I have to do, not add to it.’
The door swung open to admit Tristan and their Uncle Lancelot. ‘What’s this? Have you started without me?’ Tristan joined them on the carpet whilst Lancelot made his way over to the drinks’ cabinet in the corner.
Arthur filled him in, finishing with, ‘But as Iggy’s rightly pointed out, it’ll be more work not less.’
‘I think it’s great. Especially if we’re thinking in the longer term. If we want to offer something like annual admittance passes for the grounds, for example, people will enjoy seeing how things change over the months and years.’ He caught Iggy’s eye ‘And, it gets you off the hook trying to get everything finished in time.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Think about it. Photos are all well and good, but if you leave some parts of the garden wild like they are now, the visual contrast will have even more impact. And don’t worry about the work, I’ll take on the responsibility for the displays.’ Tristan turned to Lucie. ‘Would you be able to give me a hand with the copy? Maybe a few nice quotes about the gardens if you’ve come across any in the family journals?’
Lucie beamed. ‘Oh, what a good idea! I’m sure I can come up with something.’
‘That’s settled then.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Now all we have to do is decide what you’re going to put right and what can wait.’
‘You make it all sound so easy; I don’t know what I was getting stressed out about.’ Iggy couldn’t help the hint of sarcasm in her tone. An uncomfortable silence settled over the room, making her feel awful. They were all only trying to help, and she herself had approached Tristan in the first place.
‘Come now, I’m sure no one is underestimating how much you’ve taken on with this, darling girl.’ The gentle reproach from her uncle sent heat rushing to her cheeks.
‘Sorry, I’m being a brat.’
‘No, you’re not.’ Arthur reached over to pat her knee.
‘Yes, you are,’ Tristan insisted. ‘But we love you anyway.’ He settled himself more comfortably, back resting against one of the two leather Chesterfield sofas which dominated the centre of the room. ‘Why don’t you tell us where you’ve got to so far, and then we can decide on the rest.’
Lucie curled her legs beneath her on the opposite sofa. ‘I’ve got my notebook so I’ll just listen in and make some lists.’
Iggy closed her eyes for a moment and thought about where to start. ‘Okay. We all agreed the walk we set out for the Easter egg hunt worked really well.’
The others nodded.
‘It’ll be a nice family walk whatever the season,’ Lancelot said.
‘Exactly. And there are a couple of points where we can spiral off from that straight-forward loop-down towards the lake, for example, and another one which we could link up to the existing path that runs along the boundary wall parallel with Tumbledown farm.’ She scrabbled amongst her papers and drawings until she found the large photocopy she’d had made of one of the more recent plans which showed the castle and its surrounding lands. ‘Look, I’ll show you.’
She traced an approximate loop of the route through the woods that led walkers to the replica stone circle their ancestor Thomas had created in a large glade, and back towards the castle. ‘That’s route one.’ Swapping her pen for a different colour, she drew a line leading away from the loop towards the lake and back towards a point at the edge of the Lady’s garden. ‘This could be the second one.’ With a third pen she traced a meandering path around the formal gardens which connected to the lake walk, passed up to the castle and back down again. ‘This would be an easy stroll for anyone who didn’t fancy tromping through the woods, or if they want a more strenuous walk they can then pick up this one-’ she tapped the end of the pen to the second route ‘-and head down to the lake.’
Arthur angled the paper towards him. ‘I see what you’re doing. If we try and interconnect as many of them as possible, visitors can explore as much or as little of the grounds as they want to.’
A warm glow started in her belly. He really did get it. She tugged the sheet back and drew a bold line running from the far end of the formal gardens loop and out towards the dales. ‘For the hikers.’
Lancelot leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. ‘If I can make a suggestion?’ When she nodded, he continued. ‘Rather than having them tramp all over the place, we could easily mow in a path along the edge of the gallops, encourage them to cross the park land that way.’
‘That makes sense.’ She amended the proposed route. ‘Although we’re bound to get a few people who stray.’
‘Of course, but I think if you give them the option of a path to follow, most people will use it. Most British people, anyway. We love a bit of order, form a queue and all that.’
Iggy laughed. ‘Good point. People don’t have to stick to the routes, but if we mark them clearly, it should be quite straightforward. And perhaps we should consider whether we want to offer them maps.’ She looked to Arthur for guidance.
‘I’ll have to cost it out, make sure it’s built in when we decide on an admission fee.’ He glanced up at Lucie. ‘Can you highlight that as a job for me to do?’
‘It’s on the list, don’t worry,’ she assured him, tapping her pen on her notebook.
‘And, again, we don’t have to do all of this in one go.’ Tristan pointed out. ‘We can post large maps at starting points of each of the walks and come up with a less intrusive way to mark the routes along the way so we don’t spoil the views.’ Her brothers launched into a discussion over the pros and cons of costing in everything up front versus adding value at a later date.
After a few minutes of the two of them going back and forth Iggy held her hands up. ‘These are all great ideas, and I’m feeling so much more positive than I was yesterday, but we’re getting a bit bogged down in the details. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of leaving parts of the gardens as they are. It will certainly make life easier for me.’
‘It’s a shame we can’t get one of those garden makeover shows in to do it for us,’ Lancelot chipped in.
‘How strong is that whisky and soda?’ Arthur cast a meaningful look at the amber contents of her uncle’s glass.
Tristan laughed. ‘I can’t see the BBC licence fee payers giving them the thumbs up for spending their hard-earned cash on an ancestral pile like ours.’
‘Well fine, not the BBC, but it’d be nice if you could find some way to get people to help you out.’ Lancelot sounded disgruntled.
‘It’s called money.’
Iggy coughed to cover a laugh at Tristan’s wry comment. ‘It’s a nice idea, but no one’s going to turn up and do the garden for free.’
‘Don’t be so sure about that.’ Lucie, who’d been quiet up to then, sat forward on her seat. ‘My mum loves gardening. One of the worst things about moving to our flat was her losing our lovely back garden.’
Her face clouded for a moment, and Iggy’s heart went out to her and poor Constance. Lucie and her mum had been left with nothing when her father had been arrested as a fraudster when Lucie was still a teenager. Constance had been to stay with them a few weeks previously, and Iggy had adored her almost on sight. Seeing her and Lucie together had been bittersweet, reminding Iggy of how much she’d missed out on thanks to the selfish actions of her own mother.
When Constance had taken an interest in the gardens, it had been a highlight of her visit for Iggy. ‘Phone her and tell her to come visit us again, I’m happy to exploit her for a bit of free labour.’ She was joking, of course, although Constance was welcome any time as far as Iggy was concerned.
‘But she wouldn’t see it as being exploited, she’d be over the moon,’ Lucie said, excitedly. ‘Imagine a little army of enthusiasts given the opportunity to play a part in restoring the gardens to their former glory.’
‘It could work,’ Tristan mused. ‘They get volunteers for all sorts of things-archaeological digs, people acting as guides for the National Trust around their properties, local projects to clear rubbish from canals and waterways. We could give them a few perks. We’d feed them, of course. Perhaps throw in a nice afternoon tea and a behind the scenes tour around the castle. We could call them The Friends of Ludworth Castle, or some such thing.’
Iggy looked around at her family. This was why she needed to stop and ask for help more often. It would be the perfect reason to leave some parts of the garden untouched, and offer an incentive for people to feel invested in the future of the castle. An unexpected lump formed in the back of her throat and she had to swallow around it before she could speak. ‘I love it.’
Before she could say any more, she heard a muffled thump followed by a cacophony of barking from the great hall. Arthur pushed to his feet with a groan. ‘I’d better go and see what that’s all about.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s about time for their evening walk.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ Lucie looked to Iggy. ‘Unless you still need me?’
She shook her head. ‘No, you go ahead. Now we’ve got a way forward, I’m feeling much more positive. Tristan can help me decide which sections we can leave for later restoration projects.’
Down on hands and knees. Iggy and Tristan studied the large plan of the grounds. ‘So, I definitely need to focus on the Lady’s garden and reinstating the original central design.’ She circled the area in green.
‘What about the maze? It’ll be a good distraction for kids.’
She circled that too. ‘Yes. It needs reshaping and new gravel for the pathways, but is definitely doable.’ She paused. ‘I haven’t been inside it for years so probably best to assume the benches in the centre will need replacing.’
The door behind them opened again. Glancing back over her shoulder, Iggy saw Arthur pop his head around the door. ‘Umm … Iggy? You’ve got a visitor.’
Before she could scramble up, her brother pushed the door wide to reveal the tall man standing next to him. The biker jacket he was wearing registered first. A distinctive, vintage piece with two grey bands around the upper arms of the sleeves had been paired with a plain grey T-shirt, jeans and trainers, though she’d seen photos of it worn over everything from outlandish board shorts to formal eveningwear complete with black tie. Her brain refused to compute the information it was receiving as she finally shifted her gaze higher, past the five o’clock shadow scattered over a firm chin, the rakish scar cutting into his right cheek she’d always found fascinating, and up to a pair of steel-grey eyes.
Handsome as he was on page and screen, Will Talbot was a stunning presence in the flesh. Heat rushed to her face, as well as a few unmentionable places. The connection between her brain and her mouth finally kicked in. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Chapter 5 (#ulink_166e1a7b-1bd9-5982-9e73-ab5c5e197c87)
As first impressions went, the sight of Iggy Ludworth’s bottom clad in skin-tight denim was right up there as far as Will was concerned. The tempting patch of pale skin above the waistband of those sinful jeans revealed where her top had ridden up made a damn fine second impression; the cascade of dark mahogany curls spilling down almost to meet it, a third. Before he’d even taken in the fine features of her heart-shaped face, he was more than half in love with her. In lust with her might be closer to the mark, he corrected, as he swung the backpack off his shoulder to hang conveniently in front of his body in what he hoped was a casual gesture. For a woman like this he might be willing to break his ‘work and play don’t mix’ rule. More than willing from the urgent signals the rest of his body was sending to his brain-ready and able, too. And, then she snapped at him in that glorious ice-maiden voice of hers, and Will knew he was a goner.
When the furrow between her brows deepened, he realised she was expecting him to respond. Didn’t the woman know what she’d done to him? ‘You asked for my help.’
She sat back on her haunches, making him want to sigh with regret at the loss of his view of her deliciously plump backside. ‘And if I recall our conversation from this morning, you told me in rather graphic terms that you weren’t available.’ It was wrong just how much that frosty disdain turned him on.
‘I shuffled a few things around,’ he said, shrugging like it was no big deal. He knew he was stoking her anger, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about that frozen façade of hers that made him want to smash through it and find the real woman he could sense behind the icy mask.
His team back in the office might have something to say about his dismissive attitude, too. Having raced back from the Cornwalls with his head full of those haunting images Iggy had emailed to him, they’d spent a gruelling two hours holding an emergency meeting to run through all their scheduled jobs for the summer.
Thankfully, they’d not only seen but understood his passion to abandon the roof terraces and back gardens of London for the chance to tackle something on the epic scale of Bluebell Castle. Even so, he’d needed to be convinced they had everything in hand before Will gave himself permission to follow the craving need the photos of the castle gardens had set itching beneath his skin.
A quick dash from his office to his flat to throw some essentials into a bag, and he’d been on the road. His traffic app had told him he could make it in four hours, but an accident at the Dartford crossing and some hellish roadworks on the A1 had stretched it to six. Plenty of time to debate with himself over the rashness of his actions, and more than once he’d been tempted to veer off onto a passing slip road and turn around.
As he took in the looks he was receiving-from Iggy’s barely contained fury to the amused grin from an older man sitting on one of a pair of enormous leather sofas-Will questioned once more the wisdom of acting on impulse. Showing up at this time of the evening was inexcusable, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d considered finding himself a hotel or B&B for the night and postponing his arrival until morning, but with every mile he’d drawn closer to the castle the doubts had compounded until he’d known in his gut that if he waited, he’d change his mind. The imposing stone wall guarding the castle had almost been the final straw, but then he’d found the entrance gate standing open as though in invitation and, well, here he was.
Iggy folded her arms across her chest, highlighting to him that she was as pleasing from the front as she was from the back. ‘You shouldn’t have bothered. We’ve managed to sort things out without your esteemed talents.’ She flicked a handful of that glorious hair over her shoulder, an act of dismissal if ever he’d seen one. ‘If only you’d called first, it would’ve saved you a wasted journey.’ So much ice, so much disdain in those words that another man might have withered before them.
Not Will, though.
He’d not forgotten that little exhalation she’d made over the phone, that combination of relief and self-doubt when she’d still had hope she might be able to hire him for her project. Tiny as it had been, it had been a chink in her armour none the less. Remembering it made him want to prod and push and dig until he won another glimpse of it. ‘Well, I’m here now, so it won’t do any harm to take a look, will it?’ He gestured towards the stack of plans behind her.
Shifting her weight, she moved as though to block his view of them. ‘Like I said, everything’s sorted now, thank you.’ He’d never heard anyone who could make thank you sound so much like eff you. God, she was marvellous.
Side-eyeing Iggy, the man sitting next to her butted in. ‘Bit of an exaggeration there, sis.’ Unfolding himself, he rose and offered his hand. ‘You must be Will. I’m Tristan Ludworth, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’
His informal, friendly manner told Will he had a least one ally present. Time to up the charm offensive and see if he could get the rest of them on side. ‘Cheers,’ he said as they shook hands. ‘You’ve got a hell of a place here.’
‘Not my place, as such.’ He turned to include the man who’d greeted Will in the enormous entrance hall. ‘Everything you see belongs to Arthur, here.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Hi there, Arthur, sorry to burst in on you like this.’ As they shook hands, Will’s mind raced as he worked out the relationships between everyone. Tristan and Arthur were alike enough it was obvious they were brothers, and even if Tristan hadn’t referred to her as ‘sis’, Iggy had the same colouring and striking features.
The man on the sofa was an older version of the brothers-their father, perhaps, although if the castle belonged to Arthur, more likely an uncle. Tucking his free hand in his pocket, Will apologised once more. ‘I’m sorry to just rock up like this, but I was blown away by the photos of the gardens your sister sent, and I knew I had to see for myself.’
‘We’re getting used to unexpected visitors around here.’ Arthur curled his arm around the shoulders of the pretty redhead beside him, smiling down at her as though sharing a private joke.
‘At least I told you I was coming,’ she protested with a laugh. ‘It wasn’t my fault your internet was broken.’ Having accepted a quick kiss from Arthur, she turned to Will, eyes still sparkling in amusement. ‘I’m Lucie, by the way.’
With a flush of embarrassment, Will yanked his hand from his pocket and quickly shook hers. ‘Hi, I’m Will.’
Lucie bit her lip, casting a sly glance towards Iggy. ‘Yes, yes you are.’
‘Well, we were just going to take the dogs out, so I’ll track down Mrs W, our housekeeper, and get a room sorted out for you. You’re probably tired after your drive up so perhaps we can sit down after breakfast and talk things over?’ Arthur glanced towards his sister. ‘How does that sound?’
The look on her face was decidedly frosty. ‘Fine.’
Arthur raised a brow at his sister before turning back to Will with a smile. ‘I can see about some supper for you, as well, if you’re hungry?’
He shook his head, conscious once more of just how disruptive his arrival was to these people. ‘I’m fine, honestly, although if you could point me in the direction of the kettle, I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.’ As soon as he said it, he wondered if people like this even knew where the kettle was. Arthur had already mentioned a housekeeper, and a place the size of this probably had an army of staff to fetch and carry. An image of Downton Abbeyesque servants scuttling about in neat black and white uniforms sprung to mind.
‘I’ll sort you a coffee,’ Tristan offered. ‘If you give me the keys to your car, I’ll get your bags taken up to your room as well.’
Perhaps he was too quick to judge. He hated people making assumptions about him, had been on the wrong end of enough stereotyping that he should try and avoid doing it himself. Apart from Iggy, they’d all been incredibly polite and charming so far. Retrieving them from his pocket, Will dropped his keys onto Tristan’s outstretched palm. ‘Thank you.’
‘And I’ll come out with you, Arthur. One of the mares took a knock to her leg earlier, I’d like to give it a final check before I turn in for the day.’ The older man placed an empty tumbler on a side table, then stood and approached Will. ‘I think we got lost in the introductions. I’m Lancelot. You’re that gardening chap Iggy was talking about at dinner, I gather?’
‘Lancelot?’ Will couldn’t help repeating as they shook hands. His eyes strayed to the other two men in the room. ‘Arthur … Tristan …?’
‘Yes, it’s exactly what you’re thinking,’ Lancelot said with an amiable grin. ‘Old Thomas, the ninth baronet, has a lot to answer for.’ His smile widened as he turned his attention to Lucie. ‘Although he brought you into our lives, my dear, so perhaps the silly names are worth it.’
Baronet? Wow, he really was hobbing with the nobs.
Lucie blushed, the glow of colour bringing a warmth to her pale, almost porcelain, skin. ‘Charmer.’
Clearly delighted, Lancelot bussed her cheek with an affectionate kiss.
‘You can cut that out.’ Arthur said, muscling his way between the two of them though it was clear from his tone that he was joking. All smiles, they moved towards the door.
Lucie paused on the threshold to look back at Will. ‘Welcome to Bluebell Castle, Mr Talbot. I’m so glad you changed your mind.’
Will felt his mouth twitch as the slightly odd group left the room. Lucie seemed amused at his arrival. If he could get her onside she might help him work out the lie of the land with the rest of the family.
Filing the knowledge away for later, he focused on the main sticking point in front of him. He moved to occupy the space Tristan had left, dropping to his knees beside Iggy. A blown-up photocopied map lay on top of the pile of documents. Not bothering to ask permission, he pulled it a few inches closer to study it. Looking past the various lines and coloured circles drawn on it, he tried to identify locations for the images she’d sent him.
‘Do you mind? Iggy made to move the drawing away from him, but he shifted one knee to trap a corner of the paper.
Will captured her gaze. As he’d suspected, there was a hint of uncertainty buried deep within their hazel depths. ‘Please, just let me have a look.’
Disarmed by his plea, she stared uncertainly for a moment before drawing her dark brows down into a frown. ‘What’s the point? You’ve already made it clear you think I’m trying to achieve the impossible.’ She let go of her end of the drawing, though. Was the ice melting just a fraction?
‘You caught me off guard this morning, so I might have overreacted a little bit.’ She might have overreacted a bit, too, hanging up on him the way she did, but he left that unspoken in the air between them. ‘Were the photos you sent recent? They really blew me away.’
Her scowl softened a little. ‘I took them a couple of days ago.’
‘So the bluebells are still out? I’d love to see them.’
She nodded. ‘The woods are at their peak right now. You can have a look around tomorrow morning, if you want.’ The concession, offered with a grudging lift of her shoulder, felt like a major victory. He was still a long way from persuading Iggy to let him stick around, but at least she wasn’t trying to kick him straight back out the door … for now.
Deciding not to push his luck too far, he cast around for something else to talk about, the gardens likely to be a flashpoint for her temper. ‘Lancelot mentioned someone called Thomas? Is he the reason everyone in your family’s got unusual names?’
‘What?’ The change of topic seemed to catch her off guard. ‘Oh, yes. He’s my several-times great-grandfather. He became obsessed with the idea that Camland stands on the original site of Camelot.’
Will frowned. ‘I thought it was supposed to be somewhere in the west country?’
Shifting from her knees, Iggy sat cross-legged, her body angled more towards him. ‘The most popular theories are linked to Tintagel in Cornwall and Glastonbury in Somerset,’ she agreed. ‘But there’s also one suggesting Arthur was a warlord from the north. Thomas seized on the idea, even went as far as naming his children after characters from the legends. Lucky for us, it’s a tradition that’s continued through the following generations.’ Her eye roll told him exactly how lucky she thought it was.
She was definitely loosening up now he’d steered them away from the delicate topic of the gardens, and he couldn’t resist teasing her. ‘I don’t recall Sir Iggy having a seat at the round table.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s short for Igraine.’
Her name was beautiful … unique. Much like his first impressions of her. Why she’d choose to shorten it was beyond him, though at least he wasn’t stupid enough to say that to her face. ‘I like it.’
‘Try being stuck with it for a few weeks and then see how much you like it. Half the time people don’t pronounce it properly, and nobody can spell it.’
‘Not ideal, then.’
‘Not really. And not something you’d have any experience of, with a sensible name like Will.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve been called plenty of choice things in my time, but you’re right, none of it had anything to do with my name.’ Just his behaviour. After his folks had split up, Will had gone off the rails a bit. He’d stayed with his dad, his mum’s new boyfriend not being keen on having a sullen 14-year-old around to cramp his style.
They’d done all right together at first, but the recession had hit the construction sector hard, leaving his dad short of work. To try and make up the shortfall, he’d resorted to picking up evening shifts as a taxi driver, leaving Will alone for much of the time. Never very academically inclined, Will fell into a spiral of missed homework, detentions, letters home he intercepted and threw away. Eventually he’d been skipping school on a regular basis. Hanging around the estate, he’d fallen in with a rough crowd and started drinking and fighting. Following the nasty encounter with a broken bottle, Will had ended up with a face full of stitches, a police caution and a referral to social services.
The injury had shocked some sense into Will, and he’d returned to school, only to find himself even more out of his depth. He might have drifted back into trouble had one of their neighbours not had a nasty fall. Coming home from school one day, Will had spotted Mrs Tyler sprawled on the path of her spotless little front garden. A smashed up hanging basket next to a stepladder lying on its side told him plainly enough what had happened when he rushed to her aid. Not wanting to move her, Will had called for an ambulance before retrieving a blanket and a pillow he’d found on the bed in a downstairs room-he and his dad used their equivalent one as a dining room. As he wasn’t a relative, they hadn’t let Will go with Mrs Tyler to the hospital. To this day he could still remember how small and frail she’d looked wrapped in a red blanket as they loaded the stretcher onto the back of the ambulance.
Not wanting her to come home to a mess, he’d dug around in their junk-filled garden shed for a broom and swept the soil and broken plants off the path. With his dad’s help, he’d made a trip to the local DIY-cum-garden centre next to their local superstore and he’d done his best to replace the damaged contents of the hanging basket. Returning a few days later with her wrist in plaster and a spectacular rainbow bruise on one cheek, Mrs Tyler had been delighted with his efforts and the wonky basket complete with clashing blooms of red, purple and orange had hung from the wall the entire summer.
It’d started off with a trip to the shops to pick up a few bits for her, then progressed to helping her keep her beloved front and back garden tidy while her wrist was healing. Before he knew it, Will was calling in every afternoon after school because the sweet-natured widow had this or that chore that needed doing. Will soon caught on that she was inventing little jobs for him to do, and though he wasn’t sure if it was for her own benefit or his, they’d struck up an unlikely friendship born of their mutual loneliness. When he’d confessed to her one afternoon about how hard a time he was having at school, she’d persuaded him to get his books out and helped him with his homework. Over endless cups of tea and slices of homemade cake, Mrs Tyler had slowly imbued her love of gardening in Will. In the weeks and months that followed, Will had grew up a lot. He’d apologised to his dad, and knowing Will had someone to keep an eye out for him had given his dad the freedom to look further afield for better-paying work.
The spring after they’d first met, Will decided it was time to tackle the straggly weeds and bits of rubbish littering their own front garden, and with Mrs Tyler’s help he’d transformed the space over the course of the school Easter holidays. Looking back now, two patches of brownish grass and a few pots stuffed with petunias and fuchsias was a modest start for a future Chelsea medal winner, but the sense of pride he’d experienced when his dad had come home from a few days working away to see what he’d done had yet to be equalled. They might not be a family in the conventional sense like the Ludworths, but between the three of them they’d muddled along together very nicely.
The door thumped open just then to reveal Tristan staggering in under the weight of an overladen tea tray. Forgetting his little trip down memory lane, Will jumped up to give him a hand and together they placed it down on a nearby coffee table. ‘I thought you might be peckish,’ Tristan said with a shrug as Will eyed the piles of sandwiches and cakes.
‘There’s enough here to feed an army.’
‘I’d better help you out then.’ Tristan bit into an enormous wedge of Victoria sponge.
It had been a long time since the sausage roll Will had picked up during a five-minute refuelling stop on the journey up. Lifting a sandwich from the plate, he raised it in acknowledgement towards Tristan before taking a bite. ‘Thank you.’
They munched in silence for a few minutes, Will content to watch Igraine as she gathered the drawings scattering the floor. Now she’d told him her full name, he couldn’t seem to think of her as anything else. With a supple grace which spoke of the strength gained from hours working out of doors rather than slogging away on a treadmill, she flowed from sitting to standing with the drawings bundled under one arm.
Abandoning his half-eaten sandwich, Will moved to intercept her when his phone started to ring stopping him in his tracks. Seeing Chris’s name on the screen, he excused himself and hurried into the echoing chamber of the great hall before he answered it. ‘Hello?’ Silence greeted him. He stared at the ‘Call ended’ message on the screen then noticed it said No Service in the top right. He took a couple of steps towards the front door and the phone started ringing again. ‘Hello?’
‘Whe … uck … are you?’ Even with his voice cutting in and out, it was clear Chris was very unhappy.
‘I’m in Derbyshire, looking at a new job.’
‘… byshire? You’ve stood up … elody bloody Atkins!’
Shit. In his rush to get everything sorted at work and then the journey up here, he’d completely forgotten about the last-minute invitation to Clay Given’s party. ‘I told you I wasn’t going,’ he yelled, but the phone had gone dead again.
Will was still stalking around the enormous room trying in vain to pick up a signal when the front door opened heralding the return of Arthur, Lucie and their motley assortment of dogs. A greyhound bounded over to nudge at Will’s hand, while a Jack Russell yipped and scrabbled at his calf. With the difference in their heights, it was impossible to pet both dogs at once, so Will crouched down to fuss over them both until Arthur shooed them gently away.
‘Sorry, they’re a bunch of unruly beasts.’
Having always wanted but never had a pet of his own growing up, Will was quite happy to lavish them with attention. ‘I’m not bothered, really.’ He straightened up and waved his phone at Arthur. ‘I can’t seem to get a signal.’
Arthur pulled a face. ‘It’s a nightmare around here. I’m going to sort out a signal booster before we open to the public, but it’s one of about a million things on the to-do list. You’re welcome to use the landline, and I’ll give you the Wi-Fi password so you can access your emails, hang on a minute.’ He returned a few moments later with the code scribbled on a scrap of paper. ‘The phone’s in my study …’
The adrenaline which had buoyed Will on his drive up vanished in a sudden rush, leaving him drained. The last thing he wanted was to get into a shouting match with Chris, especially in front of anyone else. He’d already caused enough disruption by showing up unannounced. ‘This’ll be great,’ he said, holding up the paper. ‘I can sort everything out with an email.’
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Sarah Bennett
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 25.04.2024
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О книге: Don’t miss Sunshine Over Bluebell Castle, the second book in the delightfully uplifting Bluebell Castle trilogy!Perfect for fans of Trisha Ashley, Rachael Lucas and Hilary Boyd.Book 1: Spring Skies Over Bluebell CastleBook 2: Sunshine Over Bluebell CastleBook 3: Starlight Over Bluebell CastleReaders love Sarah Bennett:“Summer At Lavender Bay by Sarah Bennett is a deliciously warm, welcoming, fun contemporary read and just perfect for a summer′s day.”“Absolutely loved this book it has a great story line and the characters feel like great friends who you laugh with and cry with and really care about.”“Such a joy to read – I cannot recommend this book enough!”“Sarah Bennett always keeps me entertained from the very first page”“Five stars from me!”“This is a brilliant five star modern fiction story.”