The Painted Castle

Kristy Cambron

• Publisher: Thomas Nelson
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9780718095529
• eBook ISBN: 9780718095536
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Women in Fiction
• Index: Literature

Set in three time periods—the rapid change of Victorian England, the peak of England’s home-front tensions at the end of WWII, and modern day—The Painted Castle unlocks secrets lost for generations just waiting to be found.

A lost painting of Queen Victoria. A library bricked off from the world. And three women, separated by time, whose lives are irrevocably changed.

In Victorian England, talented sketch artist Elizabeth Meade is engaged to Viscount Huxley, owner of Parham Hill. However, Elizabeth’s real motive for being at Parham Hill has nothing to do with art or marriage. She’s determined to avenge her father’s brutal murder—even if it means a betrothal to the very man she believes committed the crime.

A century later, Amelia Woods—a World War II widow who has turned Parham Hill and its beloved library into a boarding school for refugee children—receives military orders to house a troop of American pilots. She is determined the children in her care will remain untouched by the war, but the task is proving difficult with officers taking up every square inch of their world . . . and one in particular vying for a space in Amelia’s long-shut up heart.

When art historian Keira Foley is hired to authenticate a painting, she hopes this is just the thing to get her career and life back on track. But from the time she arrives at Parham Hill Estate and begins working alongside rumored art thief Emory Scott, she’s left with far more questions than answers. Could this lost painting of Queen Victoria be a duplicate of the original Winterhalter masterpiece, and if so, who is the artist?

Praise for The Painted Castle:

“A gripping tale of secrets hidden behind the walls of an ancient English castle.” —KATE BRESLIN, bestselling author of Far Side of the Sea

• A Sweet Historical Split-time Romance
• The third and final book in the Lost Castle series
• Books do not have to be read in order
• Full-length novel with three woman each finding her own happily ever after

Eight

October 12, 1944

Framlingham

East Suffolk County, England

The heirloom-silk gown teased the women in Framlingham from the window of Bertie’s Buttons & Bows dress shop.

Amelia passed by each time she rode down Church Street on her old bicycle, creaking over every bump of uneven cobblestone, heading to Wickham Market for the weekly shop. The sight of it brought both bliss and anguish in equal measure, though she’d venture back by every Tuesday, riding the long way through town just to peek in the windows and see if it was still there.

And there it would hang.

The liquid-satin gown. Gleaming. And pin-tucked in all the right places, with gentle cinching at the waist and a wrap bodice that created a dangerously elegant V connecting up to structured shoulders. It swept to the floor like a bucket of cream had spilled over the inside of the window box ledge with a fishtail train gathered in a pool on the hardwood below.

The prime minister’s government encouraged Englishwomen to “keep up standards”—solemn faces and scraggy buns tucked under prewar cloches would degrade morale, just as it was considered unfashionable to bop about in frivolous trappings. There was a delicate balance to strike, and so the high-priced beauty hung there day after day. Who could possibly surrender eighteen ration coupons for a length of satin a woman might be able to wear but once?

Practicality was the beast that ruled them all with a war on. Amelia spent her days in denim coveralls, a rotation of serviceable blouses, and the couple of herringbone skirts she mended to keep nice enough to wear in town.

Amelia rode by the shop toward Framlingham Castle, waving at sweet old Florence “Bertie” Bertram in the window, who was busily frilling her display of hats and sundries around her shop’s token centerpiece. One last stop and Amelia could forget the gown for yet another week.

She pulled her bike up to the entrance of the Castle House, leaning it against the stucco wall of the public house before she stepped inside. The old brass bell above the door clanged its usual welcome.

The rich aroma of turtle soup awakened her senses—it was not her favorite, by any means, but if she was able to save a coupon or two for Darly’s love of it, she did. She was greeted by the central bar of polished wood, humble tables with mismatched chairs, Tudor walls that stretched to low ceilings, and a playful fire sputtering in the hearth.

It was sunny but undoubtedly brisk that day, enough that Amelia was drawn in to stand by the warmth of it. Years of rations without replacing silk stockings meant her legs were bare and rightly covered with gooseflesh under the length of her midi skirt.

Thompson poked his head out from behind the bar. “Ho—milady!” The old man waved. “No rain today, eh?”

A blush warmed Amelia’s cheeks.

Milady. Perhaps she was more used to it than she’d realized.

“Good afternoon, Thompson. No more rain, I’m delighted to report. I’m not certain I’d have fancied a ride through the backroads from the castle—all that mud left over from yesterday. I have but one good pair of buckle shoes left, and I’m afraid I’m rather protective of them.”

“Ye’d be clever to mind yer step, milady. The cobbler’s shop has a line down the sidewalk for those wantin’ repairs. Best make it a wide berth when clouds start their gatherin’. But go on wit’ ye then—warm yourself by the fire,” said the fourth-generation innkeeper and cook, with a disposition as warm and wrinkled as the cheer in his face.

“Winds changing do make for good soup weather. And sitting by a fire.” Amelia removed her dove-gray gloves, set down the old biscuit tin she used to transport his famous soup, then slid it across the bar top.

“The usual then?”

“Please. But with a spot of extra pumpernickel. There was a surplus at the butcher’s and that put Mr. Clarke in a rather pleasant mood—enough that I was able to purchase rashers for the children and still keep one coupon back for Darly’s favorite meal. He shall be delirious with this good fortune.”

“It seems old Darly will be in for a treat tonight then—more than turtle and water stews in the back. We have potatoes! We received an extra crate in shipment, and rather than huntin’ out what the mistake be about, they disappeared into the belly of our soup pot. Still had to use the armored heifer though. But bread we’ll toss in at no extra charge as thanks for the autumn blossom honey ye sent over.”

“Well, I don’t think anyone is going to complain about canned milk to thicken a soup, especially when you have bread with honey to accompany it. Do you need more than two crocks? We have extra put by in the cellar.”

“I’d take all if I had my mind.” He smiled. “But no. Keep the extra sweetness for the children. They’ll be wantin’ somethin’ special come the holidays.”

Somehow the fire seemed more pleasant than usual. The dining room was calm as it awaited the flood of villagers who’d fill it come teatime. And on days like this, Thompson was eager to share news of what trickled in from locals. They hadn’t a cinema in town, and since Thompson served as both postmaster and head of the Framlingham night watch, it was best to check in where stories arrived before the newspapers had set to print, and activities of the airfield were sure to be carried from house to house.

Thompson’s sons were long grown and had missed the call of war, but that didn’t mean the old innkeeper hadn’t a keen heart for their village boys fighting it out overseas. Even the Yank flyboys had grown on him for how they frequented his dining establishment. It was in fact what Amelia bargained on in stopping by that afternoon. It had been nearly three days since Wyatt’s crew had been seen after their last mission.

Three days . . . and no news.

“What news from the airfield today?” Amelia asked, hopeful as she eased into a wooden chair by the fire. She crossed her legs and unbuttoned her deep-merlot topper down the front. The fire sizzled its warmth like a blanket wrapped around her.

“A Combat Box of flyers went out in the wee hours. The watch counted them out from the roof of the butcher shop—a sturdy formation of twelve planes. Then we took turns standing out in the bitter cold and waited nigh until the afternoon hours for ’em to come back.”

When his face grew serious, a breath locked in her lungs. She squeezed the gloves in her palms before she knew what she was doing. “And . . . they did?”

He nodded. “A mighty relief. Watched them come in not two hours ago. Counted the big birds one by one and didn’ breathe until both squadrons come through, wit’ Spitfires flying their escort. They all touched down at the airfield safe and sound.”

Amelia let go of half the breath pent up inside along with her white-knuckled grip on the gloves in her hands—the Parham Hill officers were safe for now. That’s what mattered. She just had to pray that when the post did come in, it didn’t include any heartbreaking telegrams from the War Department.

“Well then, it’s jolly good to have had such a large harvest this year. The wax will keep St. Michaels in supply so we can all light candles for the boys at the front. The children pray for them every night. They even remember our dear prime minister—Luca thinks him a rather formidable figure but prays our leader will see an end to this war so he might be reunited with his parents again.”

“That young lad keeps his sister on her toes, eh?”

Amelia’s heart squeezed. “Yes. And the rest of us too.”

It wasn’t likely the townsfolk would inquire about a little scamp bustling about their shops and pubs. The fact that Arthur and Amelia had secretly taken in a pair of German Jewish children as far back as Kindertransport in December ’38 wasn’t something she wished to explain to anyone outside of a trusted few. And the fact that she was hunting down the fate of Luca and Liesel’s parents at the height of misinformation and roadblocks behind enemy lines . . . It was a monumental task that seemed to move at a snail’s pace.

“I am quite certain God hears the prayers of those whose greatest wish is to be with someone they love, so He must hear ours—both for Luca’s family to be reunited and for all the boys to come home safe.”

The bell interrupted with a clear tone, ringing out as the front door opened.

Amelia looked up as the tall form of Captain Stevens breezed in and stole her thoughts away.

Several of the units had been on mission, Wyatt’s among them.

The 390th was flying formation over enemy territory and Amelia knew little else, save that rumor had it Captain Stevens routinely volunteered for the more dangerous missions over the other officers. Yet he stood there in the ...

Table of contents

• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Contents
• Prologue
• One
• Two
• Three
• Four
• Five
• Six
• Seven
• Eight
• Nine
• Ten
• Eleven
• Twelve
• Thirteen
• Fourteen
• Fifteen
• Sixteen
• Seventeen
• Eighteen
• Nineteen
• Twenty
• Twenty-One
• Twenty-Two
• Twenty-Three
• Twenty-Four
• Twenty-Five
• Twenty-Six
• Twenty-Seven
• Twenty-Eight
• Twenty-Nine
• Thirty
• Thirty-One
• Thirty-Two
• Epilogue
• Author’s Note
• Discussion Questions
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Back Ad
• Praise for Kristy Cambron
• Books by Kristy Cambron
• Copyright