Haunted Ground

by Irina Shapiro

  “Does it say anything about the tomb?” I asked Aidan, peering over his shoulder.

  “Yes, there are a few pages written by Anne in 1726.” Aidan held up the pages and began to read.

  “The year of our Lord, January 1726.

  I will always be grateful to my mother for making the ultimate sacrifice and marrying a man she didn’t love to give me a better life, and so I made a vow to her before her death that I would give her the thing she wanted most. Luckily, my own marriage was based on a deep and lasting love, and my husband built this house for me on this site because I asked him to. He knew what it meant to me to live in a place where my parents fell in love. Bartholomew bought this land from the Church for a much inflated price in order to make sure that my father’s resting place would never be disturbed, but I always worried that future generations would clear away the ruin and cut down the tree. I had my husband order a stone coffin in Lincoln and had my father’s remains exhumed and put to rest in the cellar of this house. It would be my dearest wish to have him buried next to my mother in the cemetery, but that was not to be, so I interred him here with us. How can he be in Hell when he’s so loved?

  Since I’m now an old woman and will likely not live to see another summer, I write these things down to be cloistered underneath my father’s tomb, so that my mother’s words of love can keep him safe and soothe his wounded soul. My children will keep vigil over their grandfather long after I’m gone, but I pray that their children and their children’s children will not forget him, and let him live in death longer than he lived in life.”

  I was sobbing by the time Aidan finished reading, overcome by grief for two people who were long dead, but whose love managed to live on for generations. No wonder Brendan couldn’t rest. He felt responsible for the death of his wife, and she, in turn, felt responsible for his suicide. It was like a real-life Romeo and Juliet.

  “So, Brendan and Rowan Carr were your ancestors,” said Aidan as he set aside the fragile pages. “And now you can carry on their legacy as you were meant to. Funny how things work out, isn’t it?”

  Funny is not a word I’d use, but I knew what he meant. I’d never been someone who believed in Fate, Destiny, or God’s plan, but there was no other way to describe what had happened to me. An unseen celestial hand had guided me step by step toward this moment, toward this end, and for the first time in my life, I felt as if I was truly home. This is where I belonged, and this was the man who belonged here with me.

  I walked over to the window. The sky above the tree line was streaked with bands of pink; the clouds lit up as if from beneath with a rosy glow that gave them a magical aura. It was still light outside, but the lavender sky would quickly give way to a deeper shade of purple as the first stars began to twinkle in the dusk, and the last glimmer of light would be leached from the day. I had about ten minutes.

  “Where are you going?” Aidan called after me as I sprinted from the room.

  “To the ruin,” I called over my shoulder.

  He made to follow me, but I called out for him to stay back. I needed to do this alone, and I needed to do this now— finally. I ran across the meadow and over the stone bridge, hoping I wouldn’t be too late, but no, there he was, emerging from the ruin as he did every night at this time. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest as I drew closer and closer until I could see his face clearly.

  Brendan Carr was younger than I’d expected him to be— my age to be exact. I’d never seen him up close before and I was surprised by the wide hazel eyes and the generous mouth that was probably beautiful when it smiled. His lean face was covered with day-old stubble, and his dark brown hair fell to his shoulders in waves, but looked surprisingly masculine all the same. I watched as he sank to his knees below the tree and went through his routine, only now I knew exactly what he was seeing. He saw the bodies of Reverend Pole and his beloved wife swaying in the evening breeze, their necks scratched and bloody from tearing at the rope that was preventing them from taking that breath that would make the difference between life and death. Now I understood the anguish and the guilt, and the soul’s refusal to seek peace in the face of such loss.

  Brendan finally got up, and as he did, I approached him slowly, calling his name. I don’t know what I expected, but he seemed to hear me. Our eyes met. I held up my hand, and he brought his palm to rest against mine. It didn’t feel solid or warm, but I could feel something that was more than just vapor. I felt contact.

  “Brendan, she didn’t die,” I whispered. “She lived, and so had your daughter.”

  His hazel eyes gazed into mine, and a slight smile appeared on his lips, and for that one moment, we were both at peace.

  Epilogue

  I glanced gleefully at my bookings, excited as ever to have a full house for the next few months. We’d opened our doors only last summer, but except for a few slow weeks after the New Year, business had been brisk. I still couldn’t believe that the rundown house I’d found two years ago was now this elegant establishment that gave my guests a glimpse of what it was like to live in a grand manor house of centuries past.

  No one knew of the secret room in the basement where the remains of my great-great-great-grandfather rested, but I’d made the story of Brendan and Rowan public, feeling that they deserved to be remembered by this village that had been responsible for their fate. Strangely, it’d been Paula who approached me first after the news of the manuscript spread like wildfire, thanks to Dot. She’d barely spoken to me since Colin was sent away to prison for attempted rape, but now she came to the house, asking to speak to me.

  I suppose it came as no surprise that Paula already knew the story, or at least part of it. She was a direct descendant of Timothy Aldrich, who had been a staunch monarchist and was deeply embarrassed by the role his father had played in the death of the reverend and Brendan Carr, more so because it was at the hands of Cromwell’s men. Paula squirmed as she confessed this to me, almost asking for forgiveness. I found it strange that she still carried this shame all these years later, but I suppose some family secrets never truly die.

  It had actually been Paula’s idea that I speak to the vicar and see if Brendan might be buried in consecrated ground at last. Vicar Sumner heard me out, a look of astonishment on her face as her eyebrows nearly disappeared underneath her fringe and her eyes twinkled with excitement, but she promised to see what she could do. After an extensive campaign on her part, she was finally given permission by the bishop to bury Brendan Carr in the cemetery despite his status as a suicide. I suppose the bishop figured the poor man had suffered long enough. Strangely enough the letter came a week before Halloween, so the service was scheduled for All Hallow’s Eve to mark the anniversary of Brendan’s death.

  Nearly the whole village turned out for the memorial held at the church, and then everyone trooped out into the churchyard to see Brendan laid to rest. There was no room to bury him next to Rowan, since the older part of the cemetery was full to the bursting with graves which were so close to each other that one could barely walk between them, the lichen-covered stones barely legible after centuries of harsh English weather, but it was agreed that under the circumstances it would only be right to bury them together. Brendan was laid to rest in Rowan’s grave, and they were together at last after nearly four centuries of being apart.

  I had to admit that I felt somewhat apprehensive as the sun began to set that October evening. I stood at the window, hand to my mouth as I watched the ruin begin to fade into the twilight, its edges blurred and the empty windows just black rectangles until the sun touched the tree line and arrows of crimson burst through the gaps, filling the place with light for just a few moments before night descended. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath, but the sun finally sank below the horizon, the old oak just a dark shape against the lighter shade of the sky, but no grieving man beneath it. Brendan was gone. Tears of relief coursed down my cheeks as I leaned against Aidan, his arms encircling me as his lips brushed my cheek. H
e didn’t have to say anything. He knew how I felt, because he felt it too. This wasn’t exactly a happy ending, but it was the best outcome we could have hoped for, and we were content.

  ***

  I left my office and walked past the kitchen where Dot was busy preparing breakfast for the early risers, dressed as a maid from the 1700s. I gave her a brief wave and walked out into the glorious August morning, eager for my walk with Aidan. He was already waiting for me by the gate, his gaze rooted to the stone walk as he doubtlessly spotted a crack or something that needed fixing, but he forgot all about it as he saw me coming toward him and held out his hand.

  I could walk perfectly well on my own, but he felt protective of me now that I was in my third trimester and my balance was sometimes less than perfect. I secretly enjoyed his fussing. We’d been married on Skye over Christmas, and I still shivered with pleasure every time someone referred to me as Mrs. Mackay.

  I placed my hand in Aidan's, but turned to face the house before walking down the lane, as I did every morning. There it was, grand and proud, the windows glinting in the morning sun and the gray stone looking as impregnable as it doubtless did centuries ago. I smiled at the discreet sign above the entrance. The Rowan Tree Inn. Somehow the name seemed appropriate to me.

  The End

  Please turn the page after the Notes for an excerpt from

  The Hands of Time.

  Notes

  I hope you enjoyed Haunted Ground. The idea for this book came to me when my husband and I were on vacation in Ireland and stayed in a manor house hotel such as the one I described in this book. The place was absolutely beautiful and steeped in history, but what really affected me was the ruin visible just beyond the stream that crossed the lawn behind the property. I’d seen many ruins in my life, but this one had an aura of sadness I just couldn’t shake. Every time I looked at it I felt a desire to cry, and it made me wonder why I should have such a reaction to a pile of stones. Of course, my imagination chimed in to tell me that something tragic must have happened there to make me feel so melancholy. None of the hotel staff seemed to know anything about the ruin, which made it even more mysterious, and the idea was born.

  Although the place was in Ireland, I chose to set the book in England, since I love British history and wanted to write something about the English Civil War. Oliver Cromwell was a fascinating man and although I don’t give him much to do in this book, I felt it was important for him to make an appearance. Another interesting character was Edward Sexby, who was in Scotland with Cromwell in 1650 and had fought as a mercenary before that. Not too much is known about him, especially his early life. Some say that he was a distant relation of Cromwell’s, but there’s little proof of that.

  Sexby was a Leveller and an ardent supporter of Cromwell and the Commonwealth, until he became disillusioned and began to think of Cromwell as a tyrant. He plotted Cromwell’s assassination with several other conspirators in 1656, but the attempt failed and Sexby fled to Flanders. Sexby returned to England in 1657 with a view to starting another conspiracy, but was captured and imprisoned in the Tower of London after a forced confession. He subsequently became ill, went insane, and died in 1658. I’d actually never heard of him until I saw him portrayed in a movie and thought he would make a nice addition to my cast of characters. He had just the right amount of bloodlust and cunning that made him a great villain.

  If you enjoyed this book, I would ask you to take a moment and leave a review on Amazon, but of course, you are not obligated to do so. I hope you will check out some of my other books, particularly The Hands of Time Series, which is my personal favorite.

  I love hearing from you. Please visit me at: www.irinashapiro.com and http://www.facebook.com/pages/Irina-Shapiro/307374895948375

  The Hands of Time: Book 1 Excerpt

  June 2010

  Chapter 1

  The trip had been Louisa’s idea. She thought it would be best to be away when it happened, and I didn’t bother to argue. What did it matter where I was? Either way, things would never be the same, and I would have to deal with the knowledge that whether I was in England with her, or on the couch in my lonely apartment looking at the clock, the love of my life was marrying his pregnant girlfriend at that precise moment. I still thought of him as my husband, despite the fact that the divorce came through two months ago.

  Michael and I had been high school sweethearts and got married at twenty, when most of our friends were just beginning to experiment with relationships. We always knew we wanted to be together forever and there seemed no point in waiting. Our marriage was easy, fun and full of love, as marriage should be when you’re married to your lover and best friend. We had a plan. We would finish college, find good jobs that would allow us to buy a house in the suburbs within a few years and then start a family. It seemed simple enough. Millions of people do it every day, but it wasn’t meant for us. We did finish college and get the jobs. We even bought our dream house in Connecticut and allocated the nicest bedroom with a view of the meadow for a nursery. Now all we had to do was fill it with a baby, who would make our happiness complete.

  I threw away the birth control pills, and we began to try officially. We even told our parents and siblings, preparing them for their new roles. When nothing happened the first few months, we weren’t overly concerned. It was normal, everyone said. These things take time. We were young and healthy and had plenty of time. Nothing to worry about. By the time we’d been trying for a year, various tests were mentioned, appointments had been scheduled, and doctors had been consulted.

  Another year had gone by and still I wasn’t pregnant. None of the tests showed anything wrong with either of us, but nature wasn’t on our side. By the time we’d been trying for three years, options were put forward and discussed. We could do in-vitro and if that didn’t work, we could always adopt.

  We started the process. I was taking hormone shots; Michael was filling plastic cups with his specimen, we became tense and anxious, and increasingly strapped for cash, but still nothing happened. The embryos never took hold, and after five attempts, it was either sell the house or stop trying until we could afford another round. We began to gather information on adoption, but I knew Michael’s heart wasn’t in it. He wanted his own baby, a child who would be a combination of us; one who might have my eyes or his smile, or inherit his aptitude for numbers or my love of art.

  He didn’t want a stranger’s child who would never remind him of himself at that age, or hold the promise of everything we had to offer encoded in its DNA.

  We argued bitterly for months. I wanted a baby -- any baby. I had a lot of love to give, and if I couldn’t have a child of my own, I was happy to give it to a child who needed me, but Michael didn’t feel the same. Our house became filled with resentful silences and angry pauses, and the future nursery began to function as Mike’s office. What was the point of wasting a perfectly good room, after all? We still slept in the same bed, but nothing much happened. We didn’t make love because we didn’t feel love, and there was no chance of getting pregnant, so why bother?

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that Mike was having an affair when he began to come home later and later claiming work overload. It was all so cliché. I wanted to confront him, but I was afraid of where the confrontation would lead. I wasn’t ready to let go of the life I’d been planning since high school, and I was still holding on to the dream that we could work things out, and maybe find our way to adopting a baby, which would ultimately bring us closer together.

  Mike found his way to a baby long before I did. His girlfriend became pregnant a few months into the relationship, and my husband informed me that he was filing for divorce. She could give him something I couldn’t, and he wouldn’t pass up on a chance to be a father to his own child. He was sorry, of course, remorseful and sad, but firm in his resolve. He offered to buy out my share of the house, and I gladly sold it to him. I didn’t want any part of that house if he wasn’t in it with me. The divorce w
as finalized a lot quicker than I expected since Mike didn’t contest anything, and two months ago I became a divorcee at twenty-six. Some of my friends hadn’t even gotten around to getting married yet, and I was already divorced. I rented an apartment in my sister’s building, since one became miraculously available, and spent most of my time at Lou’s crying on her shoulder and watching sappy movies.

  I might have gone on like that much longer, except that Lou was offered an opportunity to travel to England to value an art collection at an old manor house near Plymouth as part of her job as restorer at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She would be away right around the time of the dreaded wedding, and begged me to come along. I suspect that she would much rather have gone alone than drag me with her and deal with my grief, but Lou wouldn’t dream of it. She was going to get me through this, and if she couldn’t do it on the Upper West Side, she would do it in England. I was conveniently off for the summer from my job as an art teacher at an elementary school, she argued, and had no good reason not to join her, so I did. Lou booked us rooms at a charming old inn in a village outside of Plymouth, which would be close to Compton Hall where she would be doing her work, and so here I was, running away from my misery.

  Chapter 2

  I had to admit that the village of Newton Ferrers was charming. Situated just ten miles outside of Plymouth, it was a perfect example of a picturesque fishing village that hadn’t changed too much over time; with most of the buildings clinging to the sides of Main Street and the heart of Main Street, being the Dolphin Inn and Pub. All life spread out from there. Dozens of quaint shops catered to the locals as well as to the tourists, and the narrow, winding streets all led either to the river or to the center of town. The Bradford Inn, where we would be staying for the next several weeks, was located on the outskirts of the village and could have easily passed for an eighteenth century house if one chose not to notice the modern light fixtures or the desk with a computer on it in the parlor boasting Wi-Fi. There were no TV’s in the rooms and the décor was strictly authentic, with sturdy four-poster beds and elegant wooden dressers and tables in mahogany and walnut.