The Darkling Bride

by Laura Andersen

  If asked—or accused—she would have instantly denied being superstitious. Certainly she did not believe in conventional ghosts. But she did believe in the energy of strong emotions. And the Deeprath walls fairly vibrated with tension—and not all of it, she thought, from its current occupants.

  Knowing the route to the library, she arrived there without hearing anything more than the noises very old houses made. Creaks, groans, the settling of centuries old wood and stone, the whistle of wind against ancient windows and the abrupt hushes of tapestried galleries. She was not afraid, she told herself. But she had the same feeling as on the day she’d arrived at Deeprath—that the castle knew its own and recognized her as an outsider. Not an enemy, perhaps, but definitely not family.

  The library was as she’d left it, with no sign that Aidan had returned after speaking to the police, and Carragh found the keys where she’d expected. She let herself through the short rounded door that led out of the library to the tower’s ground floor and switched on her light before pulling the door (mostly) closed behind her.

  The space was much more imposing at night, with only the flashlight to throw uneven light across the stones of floor and wall. The ceiling seemed miles above her and yet claustrophobic at the same time. What might be lurking in those ancient beams, ready to fall on her?

  No point panicking before she’d even properly begun. She crossed to the farthest corner, where two walls jutted into the room to enclose a space maybe eight feet square. There was a door here, made of planked wood with heavy iron fittings and a ring to pull it open. Her heart dropped when she saw it also bore a lock. It was older by far than the Yale locks used to seal the library—though certainly not medieval—and Carragh shivered, suddenly certain it had been installed during Jenny Gallagher’s life. To keep her out of the dangerous tower—or to keep her in? Had Jenny leaped from the tower’s height because she’d had no other way out?

  She was concerned that her exploration would end then and there, but when she turned the engraved handle, she discovered the door wasn’t locked. It opened smoothly. As though someone were welcoming her…

  I am not Catherine Morland, she reminded herself crossly, to be played with by Jane Austen as an example of foolish, easily persuadable girls. I don’t believe in ghosts and I don’t believe in sentient houses.

  But she did believe in history, and centuries of it almost choked her as she stepped inside and turned her flashlight upward. As expected, the enclosed space contained stone steps spiraling tightly out of sight.

  Focusing the beam on the first of the steps, Carragh began to climb. There was an iron rail—no doubt added much later to replace an earlier rope—fixed to one wall. The spiral was not the usual clockwise direction (received wisdom claimed it was for the ease of defenders swinging swords in their right hands against invaders from below) but counterclockwise. She couldn’t imagine anyone swinging a sword in this narrow space unless from directly overhead. Clinging to the rail with one hand, she kept bumping the flashlight into the other wall as she went up.

  The first floor was as bare as the ground room, save that it had six narrow windows, three each on the north and south sides. The second and third floors were nearly identical, differing only in the height of the ceiling. Each floor had the same ancient openings off the stairwell, no doubt once covered by tapestries. Carragh knew she was approaching what had been the livable areas. Where Thomas Gallagher and his household would have kept court.

  When she emerged onto the fourth floor, she was so startled that the beam veered wildly. She had expected another bare space. But this was furnished. No, more than furnished—lived in. At least, lived in once. Which gave weight to the theory that Jenny had been kept here at some point. It must have been her…what? Sitting room? What need had a madwoman of such a civilized space?

  Through the dust and webs and mold, Carragh crept noiselessly, as though she might disturb the absent occupant. There was a writing desk and a sofa that must once have been comfortable before mice (she hoped nothing more than mice) had made use of its stuffing. There was a bookshelf that now held only a handful of books with water damage and foxed pages, and an embroidery stand with the rotting remains of whatever had last been worked on.

  There was no bed. Had Jenny slept on the sofa? But then the beam picked out the stairs, continuing its spiral up, and with a sense of increasing dread, she followed it up to the last level.

  Here was Jenny’s bed. The frame was Victorian, she guessed, a rather institutional-looking plain iron bedstead. Bare of mattress or linens, it did not look in imminent danger of destruction. She could probably sit there if she liked.

  She did not like.

  Other than the bed, there was only a wooden chair and a table designed to fit against the curved outer wall. Carragh swung the flashlight around to the extremely narrow door that gave onto the battlements. But the door did not hold her attention, for it was then that she realized the stone walls were not blank. At first she thought it was a bizarrely patterned wallpaper composed of intricate lines and sweeps in gray. She moved closer and touched her hand to the wall. Her palm felt cold stone. And now, only inches away, she could see that the pattern was not decorative.

  The walls were covered in writing.

  In the pressing blackness, with only the flashlight for illumination, she strained to make out individual words. Love’s terrible fierceness…racked with the torment of one fallen from grace…iron-bound and thrice betrayed…

  Though the phrases themselves were well worn with melodrama, Carragh’s whole body shuddered. There was power in these words: an intelligence and passion and a singular voice that was greater than the sum. Someone— Oh, who was she kidding? She knew who it was. Jenny Gallagher had written on the walls of her cage, these walls, pierced only by two narrow arrow-slits and an ancient door to the outside that was, indeed, iron-bound.

  Carragh ached for more illumination so she might read the whole of it, though she knew it would not be as simple as that. It had been written with who knows what ink on medieval stone in a room that was unheated and damp. She would be lucky to get even a hint of a coherent narrative.

  She would return tomorrow, if she could steal an hour in daylight. Aidan Gallagher need not know. Carragh told herself he was burdened enough just now, that she was being positively altruistic in keeping quiet about it. But she knew the truth of the matter: she was afraid Aidan would forbid it. And nothing would keep her from trying to piece together Jenny’s last days, in hopes of discovering what had happened later to her husband and his missing book.

  * * *

  —

  Aidan couldn’t sleep, tossing restlessly, his mind in more turmoil than his body. This was exactly why he’d never come back to Ireland. He’d known he would find Deeprath disturbing. What he hadn’t anticipated was the police. What an idiot! He knew how these things worked. He knew his parents’ case was still technically open and unsolved. Of course the police would want to look into it with all the family gathered together and before the castle became contaminated, as it were, by outsiders.

  But he wasn’t a police officer where this case was concerned. He was a son who wanted answers.

  He gave up after midnight and flung back his covers. In London he had weights and a treadmill for when he couldn’t sleep; here he would have to settle for walking around the castle. That should be good for several miles.

  Thankfully for the strain on his memories, he hadn’t spent much time in his childhood wandering Deeprath at night. Not alone, at least. Kyla had always been there, the two of them spying on the dinners and parties their parents held with clockwork regularity. Despite the five years’ difference in their ages, his sister hadn’t minded her little brother tagging along. Not that they’d had a huge number of playmates to choose from, Deeprath being so far off the beaten track. Even when Kyla went to boarding school at age twelve, she’d been willing to hang out with Aidan when she was home.

  Until that last summer. Turning fi
fteen had changed her into a moody, irritable stereotypical teen girl—at least in his ten-year-old eyes. The only time she’d smiled that whole summer had been when Philip was around. Aidan had disliked Philip even then, and twenty-three years’ acquaintance had not improved his opinion of his brother-in-law.

  After a jog around all three floors of the Regency wing, Aidan headed for the library. Knowing that the police did not have the missing account book and journal he’d been looking for, he would have to begin looking somewhere, and there were enough shelves in the library to hide a dozen books. He’d turned on one of the table lamps and debated flipping through his grandfather’s catalog for inspiration when he heard a thud, like something heavy falling. He turned, searching for the source, and realized that the door to the tower was open. And a beam of light, swinging crazily, was coming through it.

  He reached the door just as Carragh came from the other side. Startled, she dropped the flashlight on the flagstone floor, making the same sound he’d heard before. Her underlit face was all shadows and hollows, her eyes like dark stars flung down from heaven…

  Only when her shoulders sagged in relief did Aidan realize he must have scared the hell out of her. He picked up the flashlight—it was ridiculously heavy—as she said, “You have got to stop looming out at me from doorways.”

  “You’ve got to stop wandering around where you don’t belong.”

  He didn’t mean that. He didn’t even know why he’d said it, but her expression closed off as she took the flashlight back. “Couldn’t sleep,” she said briefly. “And curiosity is my original sin. Here’s the key.”

  “You’re welcome to explore the empty rooms as much as you like,” he said apologetically. “As long as you promise to be careful—the last thing I need is someone falling through a floor and suing me.”

  “Because the tabloids would have a field day? Or because the police would be suspicious? Or maybe because Nessa would decide I’d offended one of the castle ghosts?”

  He was almost sure she was teasing him. “Just promise to be careful and not go wandering alone at night with only that torch.”

  “That I promise you,” she said with real feeling.

  “How did you like the Bride Tower?”

  She hesitated. “Have you been up there?”

  “Not since I returned,” he said briefly. And he’d prefer to keep it that way.

  “I’d better get to bed,” she said, and only much later would Aidan realize she hadn’t answered his question about the tower. “Lots of library to get through tomorrow.”

  “Ah, as to that, I forgot to tell you earlier. The police have asked for access to the castle tomorrow, and the library especially. I’ve given them leave to examine whatever they like, save Nessa and Kyla’s personal items. They’ll leave you alone, of course, but it would be easier for them if we were not in the library in the morning.”

  “Of course. I could take the catalog to my room and do some work there.”

  It was his turn to hesitate. Then, in an impulse he didn’t understand, he said, “I’m going to walk up to Glendalough in the morning. Would you like to come?”

  “The monastic city? I’d love to. What time?”

  “Eight o’clock? Wear comfortable shoes—it’s two miles there and back on foot.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  As she walked away, Aidan imagined he could hear Penelope’s light, amused voice in his ear: Walking in your mountains with a woman? Be careful, Aidan. You never know where that might lead.

  * * *

  —

  It had taken a surprisingly short time for Carragh’s borrowed bedroom to become a sanctuary. At least there she wouldn’t be disturbed by imperious old women or bitter older sisters or disconcerting Irish lords with the kind of stunning blue eyes and black lashes that her grandmother had described as being smudged in with a sooty finger.

  Although, after what she’d found in the tower, she wasn’t all that wild about having that spooky double portrait staring down at her while she was in bed.

  It wasn’t staring at her. It wasn’t there at all.

  Carragh stopped in her tracks when she saw the blank expanse of wall unbroken by any painting. Had someone removed it for some reason? In the middle of the night?

  No, it was still there, just leaning against the wall at floor-level. She wanted to believe it had fallen, but oil paintings did not fall and manage to turn themselves front to back in midair. Because all she could see of it now was the thick brown paper glued around the back of the frame. Very odd.

  She hesitated before picking it up and returning it to its rightful place. She was tempted to leave it where it was, if only not to spend the night with those doubled eyes looking at her, but she didn’t want Mrs. Bell or, Heaven forbid, Nessa to think she had tampered with it. Better to endure the imaginary disdain of painted faces than the actual disdain of the formidable Nessa.

  I’m sorry, she said silently to the white-clad Jenny after she’d rehung the painting. All she could think of were those two disturbing rooms behind a locked door, and the young wife and mother who had ended her life there.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was a perfect day for walking—the morning misty and cool, with pale sunlight filtering through the trees. Aidan felt himself unbending as he followed the path he’d taken so often as a boy and thought wryly of Penelope’s pronouncement: You belong there.

  Carragh, by his side, was a good companion, neither a chatterbox nor a silent burden waiting to be entertained. She asked a few questions about the landscape, but otherwise seemed content to drink it all in. And when the Round Tower of the ancient settlement came into view on the horizon, she caught her breath with a delight that pleased Aidan as though he were personally responsible for it.

  “Welcome to Glendalough,” he told her. “Pilgrims for hundreds of years would have greeted the sight of the Round Tower with relief and gratitude. Ireland wasn’t easy to travel in those days, especially not the mountains.”

  “The mountains are still not easy to travel, especially on foot,” she pointed out. “And it wasn’t so many generations ago that the British tried to split the mountains in two with their road. I believe it only worked to a limited extent.”

  “You’re right. Even with the British road and military outposts, hundreds and hundreds of starving Irish made it past them to take refuge in our mountains during the Famine. The Gallaghers were among the landed of Wicklow who helped keep them alive.”

  “And the English didn’t like that?” she teased.

  “I don’t think the English have ever liked anything about Ireland. We have always been a grim duty, not a prize.”

  The lines and peaks of other roofs and walls continued to sharpen against the misty morning as they came nearer. “How much do you know about Glendalough?” he asked Carragh.

  “Historically?” She shook her head. “Only the basics. St. Kevin, hermitage, monastery.”

  “Then I have some stories to tell you.”

  His mother had been an avid and zealous student of Wicklow history and, instead of chapter books at night, she had told him tales of saints and kings and banshees and changelings. The white cow who appeared morning and evening to provide milk to the infant saint. Kevin’s retreat into hermitage in the Valley of the Two Lakes, and his rebuke of the larks for singing too early, so that now its song is never heard in the valley. The banishing of the monster from the Upper to the Lower Lake. The blackbird who built a nest on Kevin’s upraised arm while he was praying, and the otter who brought him salmon to eat in his final years. Aidan shared all those legends and more. Some of them Carragh knew, from her Irish Studies at Trinity, and she provided a few interesting comparisons to other Irish tales.

  He had packed bread and cheese, dried apples, and Mrs. Bell’s homemade sausages. They ate by the river that ran out of the Lower Lake, just off the path maintained by the National Park Service. By the time they finished, other voices and footsteps had begun to ec
ho through the air. The guests at the Glendalough Hotel were up early, to enjoy the site before the rush of outside visitors. It was located within sight of the gatehouse and its unusual Sanctuary Cross, and Carragh asked idly, “What do you think the monks would have made of a hotel in their holy city?”

  “They entertained hundreds upon hundreds in their day.”

  “They didn’t make money off them.”

  “Of course they did. Not from a room rate, maybe, but they could not have afforded such hospitality without generous recompense from the wealthier pilgrims and novices.”

  “Cynical,” she noted. Her face was as open as the sky, not watchful, as she always seemed to be in the castle.

  “Practical,” Aidan retorted. “Hermitage can never be more than a solitary experience. The monastic city, on the other hand, educated thousands and sent most of them out into the world to spread their knowledge. I find it…admirable. Perhaps because I recognize in myself the instincts of a hermit. I used to roam around here as a child, wishing I could be one of those who never had to leave Glendalough.” He smiled at her wryly. “I had yet to grasp the full concept of what being a monk entailed.”

  “You came here when you were little?”

  “Mmm. Sometimes I’d walk, sometimes I’d catch a ride with someone leaving the castle and spend hours exploring.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Mostly—at least that last year. Hermit, remember?”

  Not a hermit, though, so much as a spy. As a child Aidan had liked setting his imagination loose, and nothing fueled it like people. Not those familiar faces he saw day in and day out, but strangers whose lives he could only glimpse in fragments, snatching at their conversations without context, weaving epics from the threads of tone and glance.