LITMIR.BIZ

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      Once Lucie and her mum had been forced to take up residence in a tiny little flat miles from where anyone might know them, Lucie had become something of a hermit. Enrolled in the local comprehensive, she concentrated on keeping her head down as much as possible. Crippled by the desperate shame that people would find out what her father had done, Lucie had made no attempt to make new friends. Her only solace had been the quiet hours spent in the art department, where a sympathetic teacher had nurtured Lucie’s small talents as a painter as well as her thirst for knowledge. A tough-love careers conversation halfway through her A levels had steered Lucie away from thoughts of a Fine Art degree to one in Art History.

      Terrified of racking up any more debt than the basic student fees, she’d opted to attend UCL and stay living at home. When she wasn’t in class, she would haunt London’s myriad museums and art galleries, picking the brains of numerous volunteers and guides who were only too happy to spend wet Tuesday afternoons sharing their knowledge with an eager, interested girl. Weekends and evenings were spent pulling pints, waiting tables, and whatever other casual work she could pick up that would bring money in to supplement her mother’s cleaning jobs, until one of her lecturers hooked her up with a contact at Witherby’s and her apprenticeship—and what she’d hoped would be a new life—began.

      Though she’d tried several times to persuade her mum to move, Constance had refused, saying she wouldn’t be a burden on Lucie. She’d also encouraged Lucie to stay put and tuck away as much of her money into a savings account as she could rather than blow it on rent. Lucie had gone along with it, promising herself that as soon as she could afford it, she’d get them both out and into a nice little house somewhere in the suburbs. Somewhere with a garden so her mum could spend time on her knees tending her flowers rather than scrubbing kitchen floors. She had it all planned out in her mind’s eye, down to the little shaded arbour she would build for Constance to sit and relax beneath.

      And now those plans were withering before her eyes. Although no one had said as much, it had been made plain to Lucie that regardless of the final outcome there would be no place for her at Witherby’s. Reputation was everything in the art world and word would slip out eventually—if the whispers hadn’t already started, she’d be shocked. Innocent as she knew herself to be, it would matter naught if gossip tainted her name. She would have to find a new career, leave her beloved art behind and go back to waiting tables, the only other type of work she had any experience in. With the drop in income, she could kiss her little dream house in the suburbs goodbye, and with it her dreams of being able to give her mum a better life. The tears took hold in earnest, a keening wail escaping her lips before Lucie could bury her head in the pillows and muffle it.

      A few moments later, her bedroom door flew open to bang against the flimsy wall, jolting Lucie upright at the noise. Bright light spilled in through the window as Constance flung open the curtains then turned to face her, fists on her hips. ‘Lucinda Mary Kennington, you stop that now!’ Though her voice quavered a little, there was no mistaking the determined gleam in her mother’s eye. ‘You’ve told me you’ve done nothing wrong, so stop acting like you’re guilty. I want you up and in that shower, right this minute.’ Her delicate nose wrinkled. ‘It smells dreadful in here. You’re 27, not 17, far too old to sulk.’

      Shocked at this new assertive side her mother had never shown before, Lucie allowed herself to be herded into the little bathroom. When she emerged from behind the flimsy plastic curtain it was to find her grubby pyjamas had been replaced with clean jeans and a jumper, and her favourite pair of fuzzy socks.

      Feeling better than she had for days, Lucie tugged a comb through her long hair as she wandered back into her bedroom to find the bed stripped bare and the window open to let in a chilly, but blessedly fresh breeze. The mugs, plates and other detritus she’d accumulated had all been swept away. Catching a hint of lemon polish in the air, Lucie shook her head in amazement. In the time she’d been in the shower, Constance had even managed to wipe a duster around the room.

      Wondering which version of her mother awaited her, Lucie slunk into the small open-plan living space they shared to find a fresh cup of tea and a plate of toast waiting on the little gateleg table squeezed beneath the window. A copy of The Times lay open beside her plate, with something circled in biro. Curious, Lucie picked up the paper as she sat down, eyes scanning the open page. It was the Register section, where people placed announcements of births, deaths, marriages and—she blinked at the circled entry—advertisements.

       Wanted: art historian, archivist, or other expert with relevant skills, to undertake a full assessment and survey of the Ludworth Collection at Camland Castle, Derbyshire. Full board and reasonable expenses covered for an initial two-month period, with room for extension on proof of need. No timewasters. Immediate start preferred. Apply to Sir Arthur Ludworth with full CV and covering letter to [email protected].

      ‘Well, what do you think, darling?’ Constance asked as she slipped into the opposite chair with her own cup of tea.

      ‘What do I think about what?’ When her mother raised a sculpted eyebrow, Lucie prodded a finger at the advert. ‘You can’t be serious?’

      ‘I think it would be prefect for you, just what you need to keep yourself occupied and a wonderful chance to get out of London for a bit. Some fresh air would do you the world of good and think how exciting it would be. The chance to live in a castle, for heaven’s sake, even if it’s only for a couple of months!’ Constance gestured around the little room which even with her very best efforts to make homely was about as far from a castle as it was possible to get.

      ‘But, I can’t just up and leave you, and what if Witherby’s want to interview me again?’ Lucie still couldn’t get her head around what her mum was suggesting.

      ‘Of course you can leave me, darling, I’m not completely helpless.’ Constance glanced down at her tea, a delicate blush heating her pale cheeks. ‘Although I’ve given a fair impression otherwise for far too long. I can manage perfectly well here on my own, better in fact if I thought you were doing something with your life other than worrying about me.’ She straightened up, the little flash of steel back in her eye. ‘And as for whatever that nonsense is with Witherby’s—’ she held up a hand before Lucie could interject ‘—I know, you’ve told me you can’t talk to me about it, darling, but it doesn’t mean I can’t be furious about the way they’re treating you. What do they expect you to do? Sit here in suspended animation until they finally get their backsides in gear?’

      ‘I can’t leave town, Mum. I just can’t.’ Wouldn’t running away just make her look guilty? Lucie sipped her tea, half-amazed she was even given credence to the idea. But then again, didn’t it feel like Witherby’s were already treating her like the guilty party? Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t…

      ‘You’ll have your phone with you, so if they need to speak to you again, they can contact you,’ Constance pointed out.

      ‘I probably won’t even get it. This Sir Arthur Ludworth, whoever he is, is probably looking for someone with a lot more experience…’ Was she actually considering this crazy idea? Apparently so.

      ‘That’s as maybe, but there’s no harm in applying, is there?’

      ‘I suppose not.’ And that was how Lucie found herself plonked on the sofa with her laptop on her knee as she worked and reworked her covering letter, trying to find the right combination of words to indicate she was immediately available without mentioning her current suspension. If she made it as far as the interview stage, she would speak to Sir Arthur face-to-face about what had happened, she reassured her pang of conscience.

      *

      A week later, Lucie was lugging her suitcase down the steps of the intercity train she’d boarded at St Pancras several hours previously. The crowds on the 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

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