Spring Skies Over Bluebell Castle. Sarah Bennett
platform thinned out as her fellow travellers marched off in different directions, each apparently secure in their onward journey.
Unlike Lucie.
There’d been no interview stage, just a cursory reply accepting her application with instruction to report to the castle no later than the tenth of the month and a vague instruction that catching the train would be her best option. Her Google searches hadn’t revealed a great deal about the Ludworths or Camland Castle other than a dubious link to Arthurian legend she’d quickly dismissed. No pictures of the family beyond the odd image on the Hello! website of a middle-aged, slightly portly man. In one he was dressed in full top hat and tails at Ascot, the caption beneath it stating simply ‘Baronet Ludworth’. Another showed the same man in amongst a group of similarly aged men clad in dinner jackets and women in flowing evening dresses, snapped at some grand party held to celebrate the birthday of somebody she’d never heard of.
There were plenty of images of the castle walls, a few that showed a glimpse of grey stone in the distance taken through thick, high iron gates and tree cover, so clearly the castle wasn’t open to the public. Most of the tourist photos online were of the village that shared a name with the castle, and showed a mix of stone cottages, a handful of shops and a pub. The surrounding dales looked wild and untamed, and her heart had fluttered in both excitement and a little trepidation at living in the shadow of those mysterious hills. The family holidays she’d enjoyed as a child hadn’t involved a lot of trekking or hiking and she could imagine how easy it would be to get lost in that beautiful, if bleak, Derbyshire wilderness. The pictures which had really captured her imagination, though, were those accompanying a feature article listing some of Britain’s hidden natural treasures. Beneath the tangled limbs of what was clearly an ancient wood, a sea of dancing bluebells spread out to a faded blur in the distance. The ground looked untouched, as though no one had walked beneath those ancient boughs for years. A magical place, like the photographer had strayed through the barrier between reality and fantasy and if the observer just looked hard enough, they might spot a fairy, or sprite peeking out between the roots of one of the ancient oaks. Would she get a chance to see it with her own eyes? Gosh, she hoped so.
Of the Arthur Ludworths listed on social media, none looked to be likely candidates, although she couldn’t be sure as several of the accounts had their security settings locked so she could do no more than view their most basic information. A reference she’d found in the Gazette to Sir Arthur’s recent listing on the Roll of Baronets had led her down a rabbit warren of searches into the weird and wonderful world of the Honours and Peerage system, fascinating but ultimately worthless to the job she’d been hired to do.
As she wrestled with the stubborn handle on her suitcase which was refusing to be pulled out, Lucie spotted a man dressed in the navy and red uniform of the local rail network and gave him a wave. ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for the next train to Camland?’
Tucking the signal paddle he was holding into one voluminous trouser pocket, the guard retrieved a timetable from the other. ‘You’ll be wanting Platform 7B, my love.’ He pointed to the farthest platform from where they were standing, and then to a concrete and corrugated panel construction behind him. ‘Up and over the bridge, there.’
‘Okay, thank you!’ Lucie staggered a little as her final tug released the locking mechanism and the handle of her case flew up.
‘Need a hand with that, my love?’
Though she knew he meant nothing by it, and likely referred to every female he encountered from 8 to 80 in the same manner, the man’s colloquial endearment rankled her feminist sensibilities almost as much as his assumption she couldn’t manage her own luggage. ‘I’ll be fine, thanks. Platform 7B, right?’
‘Up and over.’ The guard nodded, then turned away towards what looked like the main ticket office. The moment he stepped inside, a vicious whip of cold wind blew down the platform, followed by an ominous rumble from the dark clouds overhead. Lucie glanced from the ticket office to the far platform that appeared to offer no form of shelter with a sigh. Up and over it was.
By the time she’d panted her way to the top of the concrete incline and onto the bridge itself, Lucie was regretting not accepting the guard’s offer of assistance. In a panic over what might be deemed suitable clothing for residing in a castle, she’d stuffed pretty much the entire contents of her wardrobe into her suitcase—including a bottle-green velvet formal dress she’d found in a charity shop for the university leavers’ ball that no one had invited her to. In addition to the weight of her case, the rucksack on her back was stuffed to bursting with every reference book and cataloguing guide in her considerable collection. Rubbing her red and aching palm against her leg, Lucie hitched the rucksack a little higher on her back, ignoring the dull ache spreading across her shoulders. Switching hands, she towed the case over the bridge, thankful that at least the walk down the opposite slope would be easier.
When the case banged into her ankle for the third time, its weight and the momentum of the slope causing it to careen a little unsteadily, she realised she’d been too quick in giving those thanks. With a huff and an angry shove that sent the unwitting cause of her misery spinning into the chain link fence lining the rear of the station platform, Lucie sank down onto the cold metal bench nearby. She scanned up and down the platform for an electronic sign, or a timetable noticeboard at least, but there was nothing as far as she could see. There was nothing she could do, it seemed, but wait.
Wanting to make a good impression, she’d chosen to wear a skirt suit and a pair of low heels, teamed with her best wool coat. A decision she now regretted as the cold wind whistled past her once more, sending a run of goose bumps over legs clad only in thin nylon tights. To add insult to injury, a fine drizzle began to fall from the clouds overhead, soaking through the wool of her coat in a matter of minutes. Unable to face the return journey back over the bridge, and with no idea how much longer she would have to wait, Lucie tugged a beret from her pocket to cover her hair, hunched her shoulders and willed the train to hurry up.
Ten long minutes later, a single carriage train pulled up at the platform disgorging several passengers who scurried past Lucie with barely a glance. With no sign of any member of staff around, Lucie approached the open door of the train and peered inside just as the internal door to the driver’s area slid back. ‘Eee, you startled me, love!’ A grey-haired man with the kind of creases on his cheeks that said he smiled a lot clutched at his chest and staggered back in an exaggerated movement, the twinkle in his eyes telling her there was no harm done. ‘Are you all right, there?’ he added, taking in her bedraggled state with a quick once-over.
‘I’m looking for the train to Camland.’
‘Then you’re in the right place. Hop on, love, and I’ll get you there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, or forty-seven minutes if you go by what the timetable says.’
Grateful at the chance of shelter, Lucie hurried to retrieve her suitcase, and didn’t demur when the driver reached down to help her lift it into the train. ‘Blimey, love, you running away to join the circus?’
His kind, familiar manner was so unlike the brisk efficiency of London, she smiled. She would have to get used to being called ‘love’ or spend the next couple of months in permanent offence if he and the guard she’d spoken to previously were anything to go by. It could be worse, she mused, unbuttoning her wet coat and hooking it over the back of the seat in front of her. She’d take chatty over being ignored any day of the week. The door shushed closed behind her, and Lucie settled back in her seat, grateful for the warmth of the carriage. Well, for the first few minutes until she could feel dampness beneath her armpits and her wet coat started to steam. The central heating on the train had clearly been set to tropical.
Standing up, she tugged open the nearest window with a sigh of relief as a blast of cold air hit her glowing face, followed swiftly by a much less wanted shower of raindrops. Another gust drove more rain through the open window and she shoved it closed with a gasp. She could either boil or drown. Great.
Over the next ten minutes, the train door opened and closed as a handful of other passengers climbed aboard. As was human nature, they scattered around the carriage with as much space between