The Darkling Bride

by Laura Andersen

  “Lord Gallagher,” he began, and was immediately stopped.

  “I think we can dispense with the formality, son. If you’re going to marry my daughter, then you should at least feel free to address me without the honorific.”

  “Yes, sir.” He said it a little dizzily, not quite grasping that he had been handily anticipated.

  The viscount didn’t look overjoyed at the thought of Evan as a son-in-law, but neither did he look outraged. The quality of his silence began to press on Evan, mingling with the aura of the castle itself, until it began to seem that all the Gallaghers of the past had gathered to weigh him in the balance. Would he be found wanting?

  When the viscount finally spoke, it was as the businessman rather than the lord. “Let us be straightforward, Chase. You are in love with my daughter. I would think you an utter fool if you were not. Far more important to me, Jenny is in love with you. But there are impediments. Perhaps serious ones.”

  “I know I am not of high birth—”

  “That is of little import. No, Chase, I have no quarrel with your family or past. I respect men who work hard for their success, and you have done that. You have earned your place in the world.”

  “Then what impediments do you mean?”

  Gallagher’s brow furrowed and he seemed to be searching for the best words. “Despite three marriages, I have no male heir. Although the title is entailed, the estate itself is not. Upon my death, Jenny will inherit all my wealth and properties. When she has a son, the title will go to him. I want all of this to remain in the Gallagher name.”

  “I will gladly take the Gallagher name if it pleases you. One of the benefits of being without position—I do not have that sort of pride.”

  The viscount inclined his head. “That is one impediment settled. But I must speak plainly—if I had a living son, I would not allow this marriage to occur whatever concessions you might make. But I am willing to risk much for a chance of the Gallagher line continuing through my grandson.”

  “I do not entirely follow.”

  Gallagher seemed to be wrestling with some serious qualms. “My daughter is not well. No, it is more than that. My daughter, Mr. Chase, is not…stable. Her temperament is at times erratic and impetuous. There have been periods of melancholy. It was a condition that also afflicted her mother.”

  Bewildered, Evan asked, “Are you trying to tell me Jenny is mad? Because, sir, I have met many of the mad in the course of my research. And Jenny is nothing like any of them.”

  “This castle is her refuge. Here she is more likely to remain well. No doubt if she were confined in a madhouse, she would soon be as markedly mad as anyone else there. I have no faith in asylums.” He grimaced, as though the words stuck in his throat. “I will understand if this changes your intentions.”

  I will understand, his tone added silently, but I will be greatly displeased.

  How little he must think of me, Evan realized. But he didn’t think it wise to insult the father of his future wife. He was a writer, and it helped him now find the right words for how he felt. “If Jenny were an orphan in a poorhouse with nothing more to her than the soul I have come to love, I would marry her just as gladly. I am not afraid of illness. Not even illness of the mind.”

  He had never seen Lord Gallagher smile. Seeing it now told Evan that whatever else Jenny might have inherited from her mother, she was a Gallagher in both looks and charm.

  “You are a good man,” the viscount said. “I would not risk Jenny with any but a good man. I give my consent to this marriage with one condition—other than adding Gallagher to your name.”

  “And that is?”

  “That you never remove Jenny from Deeprath. This castle is her home. If she left it, I feel certain she would soon die.”

  DIARY OF JENNY GALLAGHER

  18 December 1879

  Evan and I are engaged! He asked me to marry him at Glendalough, kneeling next to the Sanctuary Cross. Any other girl might find that odd. But he is my Niall—my light in a life of murky shadows. I haven’t had a single headache since he came, and there has been no need for the tower. I haven’t come nearer it than the library for months—and I only visit the library to visit Evan.

  He is hard at work on his book. He will not read it to me as he goes. He says he must write a story, not talk about it, or else there is no story left. But he has promised that I will be the first one allowed to read it.

  I told the Bride of my happiness. Sometimes I forget which is me and which is her…but surely I am the happy one tonight. Even she cannot begrudge me my love, for she had her own happiness. Brief as it was.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After staying up until two in the morning and meeting with DS Cullen at eight, Sibéal devoted several hours to paperwork and drinking Diet Coke. She knew she would pay for it later with a massive headache, but she needed caffeine, had never liked the taste of coffee, and as far as she was concerned, tea was little more than stewed grass. While she worked, she kept an eye out for Superintendent O’Neill. Though it was Sunday, she knew he usually came in for a few hours in the morning. He needed updating on the Deeprath case—and Sibéal needed answers about O’Neill’s involvement there twenty-three years ago.

  He appeared as expected, and five minutes later Sibéal stood in front of his desk and rattled off her list of interviews with and plans for the Gallagher family. He listened in silence and with an inscrutable expression. O’Neill looked more like a quiet accountant than a police officer—not much more than five and a half feet tall, with wire-rimmed spectacles that obscured the acuteness of his eyes—but no one who knew him would mistake his mildness for incompetence.

  Her recital completed, she launched straightaway into the critical question. “Why didn’t you tell me you were previously involved with the case when you handed it over?”

  “Do I take it you have questions for me?” he parried.

  “No questions…yet. First, you can tell me everything you didn’t before.” Sibéal sat down as calmly as though she’d been invited.

  He fixed her with an unamused expression, then launched directly into recitation. “It was my first year in the Garda, 1992. And Deeprath Castle was my first crime scene. But even without experience, I knew something was not right. The castle was…wary. Unwelcoming. And no, I don’t believe in sentient buildings. But I do believe in the atmosphere of families. There was something badly wrong with the Gallaghers. I just didn’t know if that wrongness lay with the living or with the dead.”

  “Why weren’t Aidan and Kyla Gallagher interviewed?”

  He sighed. “They were. At the castle, within two hours of the murders. It was decided there was no need for further questioning.”

  “Or formal statements, apparently.”

  “You have the boy’s brief statement of finding his father’s body.”

  “But nothing of his earlier movements that day, where he was just before the library, his impressions of his family…and nothing at all from Kyla Gallagher.”

  “It was not my call. However, I was the constable taking notes at the scene. During both of their interviews. I may have retained them.”

  She blinked. “Yet you didn’t think to include them in the case file.”

  “I could say I didn’t want to prejudice you beforehand, and that is true. But it’s not the whole truth. This case is not simply about the Gallaghers, Inspector McKenna. It’s about what kind of investigator you are. Do you settle for the surface answers, or do you look deeper? Are you creative? Are you easily distracted or intimidated?”

  “You thought withholding information was a good way to test my skills?”

  “I thought it a good way to test your character. Some officers believe that the end justifies the means. I am not one of them. I want success, but not at any price. And I never want the kind of hollow success that comes from grasping the most convenient solution or from looking the other way. I will not work with such officers. Now I know that you are not one of them. Cong
ratulations.”

  Sibéal didn’t quite know how to respond. Thank you for making things difficult? She settled on standing up and asking, “When can I have the notes you made in 1992?”

  O’Neill pulled open one of his desk drawers and handed over a file folder. “This one has bothered me for a long time, Inspector. I want it resolved.”

  Her spine straightening automatically, she snapped back, “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  —

  On Sunday, Carragh returned to the library with a vengeance. She’d brought protein bars with her from Dublin and chose to eat one of them before she went to work, rather than take the time to eat a proper breakfast.

  She worked furiously, keeping her mind fixed on the printed titles on shelves, her fingertips quickly growing black from the spines and title pages of the volume after volume she perused. She cataloged encyclopedias of natural history, two shelves of English translations of Latin and Greek classics, and now, sitting at a table, studied four slim and startling volumes of Japanese erotica. Were some of those positions even possible for humans?

  “Who’d have thought,” a smooth male voice said from behind her, “that Deeprath Castle could offer up such a pleasurable surprise?”

  Carragh shut her eyes and swore inwardly. How did people keep sneaking up on her in this place? You’d think an ancient structure would creak and groan with warnings, but Deeprath somehow managed to strangle all sound until the last person in the world you wanted to meet was speaking right over your shoulder.

  Over her shoulder, Philip Grant plucked the Japanese book from her hands and, with raised eyebrows, studied it. “Looking for inspiration? I admire the sentiment, but you’re not a woman who needs tricks.”

  “What are you doing here?” It was hard to be authoritative and dismissive when your face was flaming red.

  “In my wife’s home? I came to offer support. And look how the universe has decided to reward me for that virtue.”

  “Virtue?” Carragh snorted. “Go away.”

  “I remember when you didn’t want me to go anywhere.”

  “And I remember that the last time I saw you I told you to go to hell. Go on, then.”

  His eyes flickered briefly with dislike. “You’re not a Gallagher. You can’t order me out of the castle.”

  “I can order you out of this library. I’m here to work, and unless you know a great deal more about books than I think, you’ll be of no earthly use to me.”

  He smiled, a deadly smile promising all manner of dark desires. “You found me to be of very good use before.”

  Philip moved close enough to touch, and Carragh jumped up from the table to get away. In the process she banged against the chair and knocked it over. She and Philip moved to right it at the same moment and he took the opportunity to put his arm around her.

  “Get out of here and leave me alone,” she spat.

  “Harassing my staff, Philip?”

  It was Aidan, with an upper-class drawl that simultaneously humiliated and infuriated Carragh. Philip straightened up with lazy good humor as she snapped at his brother-in-law, “I don’t need your help.”

  Aidan’s face was a mask of indifference as he remained focused on Philip. “Kyla’s looking for you. And I don’t have time for you to interfere with estate matters.”

  “Really, Aidan, estate matters? Is that what you call it?” Philip stooped and picked up the book Carragh had dropped. He laid it on the table, open to one of the more flagrant erotic illustrations, before sauntering to the library door.

  Before he pulled it shut, he shot an eloquent glance at both of them and winked. “Lock it behind me before working on those…‘estate matters.’ ”

  “Bastard.”

  Carragh thought she’d spoken quietly enough not to be heard, but Aidan said drily, “Quite.”

  As casually as possible, she closed the book and turned it facedown. Aidan gave no sign of having seen it. Not that she’d be able to tell from his controlled expression. However easily he’d spoken to her yesterday at Glendalough, today the barricades were back up and the gates firmly shut.

  “Progress?” he asked neutrally.

  She walked him through the morning’s work, but he seemed distracted. When she finished speaking, he said abruptly, “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m going up to Dublin for the day. I may or may not return tonight. If I were you, I’d have Mrs. Bell bring supper on a tray and stay in your room. Kyla drinks more than normal when she’s unhappy, and Philip seems to always make her unhappy these days. I doubt dinner will be any more pleasant than last night.”

  “Can I ask why you’re going to Dublin?”

  He raised an eyebrow and said coolly, “Maybe I’m looking to be entertained.”

  She almost laughed aloud. Entertainment did not seem to be high on Aidan’s priority list. Even in the tabloids, he’d always appeared as a partner to someone else and all the photos gave the same impression—that of a man forbearing for the sake of the woman next to him.

  Then she saw the slightest crack in his detachment. “Carragh—keep away from Philip. He’s always been nasty where women are concerned. Don’t be fooled by the charm.”

  She met his eyes with all the steadiness she could summon. “I’m not swayed by charm. Or married men.”

  Only when I’m miserable, she amended to herself as Aidan walked out. And drunk. And clearly God is punishing me for those errors in judgment.

  It took a while to get back into the flow of work. Mrs. Bell, alerted by Aidan, brought her soup and bread for lunch. When she’d finished, Carragh decided to indulge herself by taking a closer look at the Evan Chase novels in the library.

  They had several copies of each of the five, including all the first editions, and each of them signed by the author. But only one of them was autographed directly to his wife.

  To Jenny

  Who led me from darkness to light. May your darkling shadows be friendly ones.

  Evan

  Christmas Eve 1879, he’d added below—five months before their marriage and three months after they’d met. Had they already been engaged? For the first time, Carragh pondered the significance of such a hurried marriage. But their son was not born until eleven months later. She supposed it was just possible that Jenny had been pregnant with an earlier child that she’d miscarried after the wedding…and got pregnant again within weeks? Hardly likely. Besides, she didn’t want to believe that Jenny had only married Evan Chase because he’d seduced her. Though he was undoubtedly a romantic. Your darkling shadows…It was a phrase telling of both romance and mystery.

  Of all the copies of Chase’s books, this was the most well-worn, and Carragh was certain that Jenny herself had turned these pages often. She did the same now, catching phrases from the story as she idly skimmed. The Mourning Bell was his second book, the plot a little uneven and the writing a bit uncontrolled compared to his later work, but it contained Carragh’s favorite character: Mercy Harris, a clear-headed, plain-spoken Quaker girl who is hired as companion to the aging mother of the quintessential tall, dark, and damaged hero. There were elements of Jane Eyre—the character—in Mercy, but despite the occasional clichés, she still read today as an original, flawed, and engaging character.

  What caught her eye first was so small that she’d flipped past it before her brain registered the fact that someone had written in the book by hand. Carefully, she returned to the page and laid the book on the table, moving the swing-arm lamp to see better.

  Whoever had written, it hadn’t been Jenny herself. The ink wasn’t nearly faded enough. The lettering was fine and precise, but sufficiently small to make deciphering it difficult. Carragh picked up the magnifying glass that was a requirement in an old library and read.

  Could this be the catalyst of Jenny’s final—fatal—breakdown?

  Carragh knew this part of the story well: when Mercy discovers that her own mother is not, as she has long been told, dead—but rather, an inmate in an asylum for
the insane.

  She studied the handwritten query, coaxing it to tell her more. Someone in this house had been curious about Jenny Gallagher in the past. It could have been anyone in the last hundred years. But Carragh had a feeling she already knew who it was. Hadn’t Inspector McKenna mentioned that Aidan’s mother was interested in Gallagher family history the last year of her life? Where better for Lily to begin than the tragic tale of love and madness that had unfolded at Deeprath in the 1880s?

  Carragh examined the rest of the book, turning each page carefully to ensure she missed nothing. There were a few other notes—not immediately revelatory, the sort of half phrases a person writes to spur their own memory—that she copied into her notebook. Tucked between two pages near the end, she found a loose piece of stationery, folded once and embossed with the initials LMG. Lily Morgan Gallagher.

  The page contained a numbered list.

  1. Dublin Weekly and Wicklow People archives

  2. Baptismal records

  3. Father Hennessy

  4. Bride painting

  5. Chase’s literary agent

  6. Eileen Ryan

  Beneath that last name was an address: 41 Merrion Square East, Dublin.

  Carragh’s own address. The house that for sixty years had belonged to her grandmother, Eileen Ryan.

  * * *

  —

  Sibéal didn’t have time to go through O’Neill’s notes right away. At 11:00 A.M. she was in the Financial District north of the Liffey, meeting with Philip Grant’s business partner, who had agreed to see her despite the fact it was Sunday. Happily for her, the man had known Grant since secondary school and thus had known the Gallaghers from the moment Philip met them. If the man himself did not want to talk to Sibéal, she had no problem interviewing everyone in his circle. Eventually, he would get the message.