Castle Walk

by Melissa Bowersock

  Lacey frowned. “Do we know what the money was used for?”

  Jonas pulled a smaller book forward. “This is a record of the accounts of the individual brothers and sisters. They weren’t allowed to have much, and didn’t need much, but there might have been the odd necessity. They each kept a small account, much like a bank.” He opened the book to a page he’d tagged with a bookmark. “On October twenty-eighth, Colleen’s account recorded a small deposit.” He turned the book to show Lacey.

  “The day after McCandless’ donation,” she noted.

  “Precisely. And this same thing occurred every month. McCandless would make a donation, and a small deposit was made to Colleen’s account the next day. Month after month. Year after year.”

  “So,” Lacey mused, putting it all together, “you think he was… ‘donating’ to Colleen’s care? Her upkeep, here in the abbey?” She remembered what he’d said earlier. “You mentioned penance. Do you think McCandless was Connor’s father?”

  Jonas shrugged, obviously unwilling to make a declaration. “It is possible,” was all he’d allow.

  “Okay.” Lacey shifted into researcher mode, looking at the issue from all sides. “Is there any reason—or any record—of a connection between Colleen and McCandless? Friends, neighbors, business transactions?”

  Now it was Harley’s turn to sit forward. “None that we can find. And a connection would be improbable.”

  Lacey arched an eyebrow at him. “Because?”

  Harley looked uncomfortable. “Colleen’s family was never in line for Castle Fitzpatrick. She was, down through the generations, quite far removed from it, actually. During the 1700s and 1800s, only the firstborn son would inherit, unless as we saw with Andrew, older sons didn’t reach their majority. If there were lands available, a second- or third-born son might receive a plot of land, but the further down the birth order, the less likely that was. Colleen was essentially the seventh son of a seventh son; she had no chance for anything other than a meager life.”

  Lacey digested that. “So if that’s true, how would they connect? If she was practically a pauper, how would she meet McCandless?”

  “That, unfortunately, is something we shall probably never know,” Harley admitted. “The name itself still carried some weight, however, even without the possibility of ascendency. The divisions between them would be formidable, but not… unbreachable.”

  “And if McCandless was a man of some power, and took a liking to a young girl, he could have found a way to breach the division.”

  “Exactly.”

  Lacey could imagine the rest. A pretty young girl, rich in name but not in funds, falling under the admiring eye of a wealthier and more powerful man. Would he have courted her secretly? Or forced himself upon her? Would she imagine a better life for herself as his mistress? Or simply succumb to the pressures of money and power?

  “I suppose he was married with five kids,” she said finally.

  Harley ducked his head. “Something like that.”

  “The age-old story,” Lacey sighed. She took out her phone and took pictures of the records. She’d have a lot to tell her father when they got back to the US.

  “Well.” She stowed her phone and looked to Harley and Jonas. “I guess that’s it, then? Or do you two have any more surprises for me?”

  Both men grinned sheepishly. “No, that’s as far as our records take us,” Jonas said.

  “No doubt you’ll be able to fill in some of the gaps with your own research,” Harley suggested.

  “Oh, I will definitely do that.” She stood and shook the friar’s hand. “Thank you so much, Brother Jonas. I appreciate all you’ve done today. Your time, opening up your records to me. It’s been much more enlightening than I would have imagined.”

  “I’m very pleased,” Jonas said. He shook hands all around, then walked them back to the entry. “If you have questions in future, here’s my card.” He pulled a card from his jacket pocket. Name, phone, email address.

  “Thank you,” Lacey said. “And here’s mine. Just in case.”

  “Aye, very good. Well, enjoy the rest of your time in Ireland. Safe travels.”

  Lacey was quiet on the ride back to the castle. Not only thinking about what she’d learned, but what more she could find, now that she had names and dates. By the time she got back to the US, she’d have a treasure trove of information to share with her parents.

  “I do hope this was a positive experience,” Harley said finally as he pulled up in front of the castle.

  “Oh, it definitely was,” Lacey said. “Even if I might have wished for a better life for an ancestor, just knowing more about her is good. It gives me a better sense of who she was. Thank you for arranging this, Harley. I never could have broken through that dead end without your help.”

  Harley actually blushed a little as they pushed through the heavy doors of the castle. “My pleasure,” he said with a small bow. “And now I will leave you to yourselves. Have a good evening.”

  Lacey grinned. “We will.”

  ~~~

  FIFTEEN

  Back in their suite, Lacey flopped down on the couch in front of the fireplace and blew out a long breath. Sam hunkered down in front of the fireplace, already laid with wood.

  “Want a fire?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah, that would be great,” she said. He set the kindling afire with a long match, made sure it was going to catch, then joined Lacey on the couch. He put his arm around her shoulders.

  “Pretty interesting day, huh?”

  She smiled. “Definitely.” She snuggled close and tipped her face up toward him. “I hope you didn’t mind the detour to the abbey today. I didn’t really plan on taking that much time to get into my family.”

  He snorted. “Are you kidding? You’d never be able to find information like that online. No, this was an opportunity you couldn’t pass up. I’m glad you solved the mystery so you can trace your family back further now. Even,” he added, “if the story is rather sad.”

  She sighed. “It still amazes me how a woman’s life could be so conscribed by people and events. To have so few choices. It was so… draconian. And that was in the twentieth century, for Pete’s sake. It had to be ten times worse earlier on.”

  “At least,” he agreed. “We can be thankful our society has moved past that sort of thing. It’s easy to take our freedoms for granted until we run into stories like this. Then it’s clear to see how far we’ve come.”

  “Thank God,” she muttered.

  “Hey, how hungry are you? I was thinking about jumping into the shower before we go eat.”

  She glanced at her watch. “No, that’s fine. We’ve got time.” She grinned at him wickedly. “I’ll just get on my laptop and do a little research while you’re doing that.”

  Sam groaned. “All right. I’ll pry your fingers away from the keyboard when I get out.” He stamped a quick kiss on her lips and pushed to his feet. “Don’t fall down a rabbit hole.”

  While he disappeared into the bathroom, Lacey pulled her laptop out of her pack along with her notebook. Now that she had the missing link in the family line—Colleen’s parents—she was anxious to see how much further she could go back. She opened her browser and brought up the genealogy site. She typed Colleen’s father’s name in the search window.

  To her delight, a clear path emerged. From father to father, the Fitzpatrick name leaped backward into the past one generation at a time. Through the 1800s, through the 1700s, clear back to the late 1600s. She found a Steven in the 1800s, which she thought would please her father, and laughed to see a Samuel—but not a Samson—in the 1700s. She got clear back to 1672, where she found her seventh great-grandfather, a man named Hugh. Why did that sound familiar?

  Late 1600s; her brain was buzzing. Just for grins, she opened up a second browser window in the same genealogy site and searched on Andrew Fitzpatrick. Now she remembered. He was born in 1697.

  To Hugh and Lucinda.

  Excite
d now, she clicked on the link to see all of Hugh’s children. Ah, yes, fourteen. Andrew was the tenth born, then two daughters, then a son named Jamison. She glanced back at her first browser window, at her seventh great-grandfather Hugh, and clicked on his children.

  Andrew, daughter, daughter, Jamison. The birth dates matched up.

  Holy shit. She was related. Andrew was her six times great-uncle.

  And Rosalyn, the girl who looked so much like her, was a distant cousin.

  For a moment, Lacey just sat there, staring back and forth at the two family trees that were one, grinning like a fool. She was so excited, she felt like she might explode. Wait’ll Sam saw this. Wait’ll Peter and Mavis saw it. She was actually related to the owners of a castle. Her however-many numbered cousins. How cool was that?

  She sensed movement across the room. Sam must be out of the shower. She couldn’t wait to show him.

  “Hey, Sam, look at—”

  She glanced up, excitement lighting up her smile, which quickly faded.

  It wasn’t Sam who stared back at her, but Cornelius.

  She groaned.

  Okay, she thought, let’s nip this thing in the bud.

  “Cornelius,” she said softly. “You are Cornelius, right?”

  It was hard to read the shadowy depths of his eyes, but she thought she saw a spark of delight there. He surprised her by stepping closer. Not really stepping; his feet moved, his legs lifted and straightened, but he actually just floated across the floor toward her. He stopped not five feet away and gazed at her longingly, with some embarrassment. He clasped his hands in front of his body and wrung them slightly.

  “Cornelius,” she said gently, “I’m not who you think I am. I’m not Rosalyn. My name is Lacey. Not Rosalyn.”

  She saw distinct confusion in his gray eyes; his slight smile faltered. He floated a little closer, peering at her hopefully. Beseechingly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Rosalyn is gone. She’s been gone… for hundreds of years. Dead and buried.”

  Cornelius frowned, his wide brow creased. He held his hands out to Lacey, pleading, imploring.

  Lacey shook her head. “I’m not her. She’s gone. Cornelius—”

  The bedroom door opened.

  “Lacey, where did you put—?”

  The light in Cornelius’ eyes dimmed, and his face, his body, seemed to sag, dropping away into nothingness. In seconds he was gone.

  “Lace?” Sam stared at her from the doorway.

  She blinked, looking for the wispy image of the chamberlain, but all evidence of him was gone. There was not even a hint of the ghostly image.

  “Lacey, what’s going on?”

  “Cornelius was here,” she said softly.

  Sam glanced around. “Where?”

  “Right here.” She waved a hand at the empty space before her and sighed. “He… I told him I wasn’t Rosalyn, that she’s been dead and gone for hundreds of years. I’m not sure he believed me.” She met Sam’s eyes across the room. “He looked so sad. Like his heart was breaking.”

  Sam strode to her, still scanning the room. His quick movements spoke of agitation. “I’ll be glad when we can get him to move on,” he muttered.

  “He’s harmless,” Lacey said. She was surprised at Sam’s reaction.

  “I know he is,” he said, stopping in front of her.

  She angled her head at him. “Then what? What is it?”

  Sam dragged in a breath. “He thinks he’s in love with you.”

  Lacey leaned back against the cushions of the couch, surprised but not. Of course Cornelius was in love with Rosalyn, and he thought Lacey was her. He wasn’t technically in love with Lacey. So what was Sam upset about?

  “Are you… jealous?”

  He scowled at her. “No. I just never thought I’d have to contend with… a ghostly rival.”

  Lacey laughed softly. “Rival? Sam, he’s dead. He’s just confused. As soon as we find out his full story, we’ll release him and he’ll move on. It’s not like he’s going to attach himself to me.”

  Sam was not mollified. “It’s just a little disturbing that he comes to you when I’m not around. Hell, he got in bed with you. Why can’t he stay in the room where he died, like other ghosts?”

  Lacey muffled a laugh. Sam did not think this was humorous, which made it more so in Lacey’s mind. The stoic Navajo was jealous of an eighteenth-century Irish chamberlain. How surreal was that?

  “Well,” she said, realizing that logical discussion rarely made a dent in emotional reactions, “why don’t we go down to dinner? And I’ve got a breakthrough to share with you. I found some interesting connections in my family tree.”

  Lacey hoped the short bit of time it took her to get ready and the elevator ride down to the dining room would give Sam time to get his emotions under control. She wanted to steal a glance at him in the elevator, but was afraid she’d burst into laughter. No, better leave that subject alone for a while.

  Over corned beef and cabbage, she explained about the step-by-step progress she’d made on her own family line, then the hunch that led her to Sir Andrew and the Ellsworth’s line.

  “So you really are related to the castle,” he said.

  “Yeah. Pretty cool, huh? My dad always said the Fitzpatricks were just poor immigrants, and I guess that was true as far as he knew. He’ll be plenty surprised to find out we come from a noble line.”

  “So what now?” Sam asked. “We call you Lady Lacey?”

  She chuckled. “Not. Remember, the title wasn’t passed down. And anyway, my line took a drastic fall from grace. From nobility to unwed mother to nun. That’s quite a journey.”

  “It’s weird, isn’t it, thinking back to your second great-grandmother, finding out all she went through. With her family taking such pains to erase her and her ‘sin’ from family records, I’ll bet she never thought anyone would ever know her story. But you found it. You brought her out of the shadows and into the light.” He reached across the table and took Lacey’s hand. “That feels good, doesn’t it?”

  She smiled, nodding. “It feels great.” She tipped her head at him. “And that’s what you do all the time. Tell stories that need to be told. Reveal what’s been hidden.” She sighed. “I feel like we give a voice to people that have been silenced, one way or another. We resurrect their voices, and let them echo down through the years. That feels better than good. It feels… amazing. I’m honored and humbled at the same time.”

  Sam gazed at her intently. “Me, too,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Me, too.”

  ~~~

  SIXTEEN

  Harley surprised them by beating them to breakfast, sipping a cup of tea as he waited.

  “Quite a productive day yesterday,” he said happily.

  “And more so last night,” she said. “Let’s order breakfast and then I’ll tell you.”

  Over sausages, boxty and grilled tomatoes, Lacey told Harley of her discoveries.

  “Splendid!” he exclaimed. “So you are related to the Ellsworths. They’ll be thrilled to know that.”

  “So now we just need to find out more about Cornelius.” She did not mention the chamberlain’s visit to her last night.

  “Yes, I thought as much. I’ve asked Oswald to meet us in the library so we could all put our heads together.”

  “Sounds good,” Lacey said.

  Oswald was indeed waiting for them. He had brought a laptop as well, and already had the genealogy website open on his browser.

  “What are we looking for?” he asked.

  “Secrets.” Lacey grinned. She settled in a chair next to Oswald and looked over the record of Cornelius Trent.

  “Died May 4, 1736. No cause of death, of course. Oswald, would there be any mention of his death in the castle archives?”

  Oswald frowned. “I doubt it,” he said. He tapped his chin as he thought. “A later census could list another chamberlain who took his place, but that’s of no use.”

  “No, probably
not,” Lacey agreed. She looked up at Sam, standing behind her. “So he died in disgrace by his own hand. You said poison, right?”

  “Yes. I had a sense of a black substance in his stomach.”

  “Suicide?” Oswald asked. He looked shaken by that fact, and quickly crossed himself.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Lacey said. “You weren’t there when Sam walked. Yes, Cornelius committed suicide. He felt he’d betrayed his lord, Sir Andrew, and couldn’t bear the guilt. What kinds of poison would have been available then?”

  “I can think of two right off,” Oswald said. He spoke slowly as he worked on the computer. “Cyanide and Belladonna. Both plant-based and readily available back then.” He clicked his mouse a few times, perused the screen and then turned the laptop so Lacey and Sam could both see. “But I don’t think so.”

  Lacey leaned forward and read the information there.

  “Died May 4, 1736; burial in St. Patrick’s Cemetery.” Lacey looked up at Oswald. “I don’t get it.”

  “He was buried in a churchyard. Back then, suicides were not allowed a churchyard burial. Suicide is a mortal sin.”

  Lacey glanced up at Sam. He shook his head. “No, it was definitely suicide. No question about it.”

  Oswald frowned.

  “Okay, let’s think about this,” Lacey said. “He felt he’d failed his master, disgraced himself by some inexcusable transgression. Unless he’d attempted to win forgiveness by confessing, I don’t imagine he’d have talked about it much.” She looked to Sam to see what he thought.

  “You’re right. Whatever it was, it wasn’t something that would be redeemed by saying a few rosaries or Hail Marys. I doubt he’d have spoken to anyone about it.” Sam looked off to the ceiling, his eyes unfocused. “I feel… furtive. Like a… rat hiding in the shadows. No, I don’t think he would have entertained thoughts of forgiveness.”

  Lacey met Oswald’s eyes again. “So if he’d taken either cyanide or Belladonna, what would the symptoms be? Sickness that just got worse and worse?”