He must have mistaken her frustration for curiosity, for he added, “I don’t know who it is, sorry.”
The telephone in the aggressively masculine Victorian study fit its surroundings as much as any newer invention could, cast in bronze and finished with filigree flourishes on the rotary dial and the antique handset. A little dubiously, Carragh picked it up and said, “Hello?”
She’d left this number with only one person—the contractor for her grandmother’s house. Please, she prayed silently, don’t let it have flooded or burned down or collapsed…
It was much, much worse. “Hello, love,” said her mother.
“How did you find me?” Not, perhaps, the smartest thing to say.
“So you admit you have been hiding from me? I found out from your Dublin neighbors who has been working on the house, and then I tracked him down and he was only too happy to give me this number.”
“I’m rather in the middle of something just now—”
“Of course you are. Look, Carragh, I’m not calling to harass you about that letter. What you do with it is your business. But your father and I are concerned that you are shutting us out entirely. You’re twenty-eight, I know. But you’ve been saddled with a house in poor condition in a city where you’re alone, you’ve been incommunicative since your grandmother’s death, added to which your birth grandmother is trying to make contact and we’re worried about you. That is all. And we want to help. With the house, if nothing else.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re all eager for me to put the house up for sale and take the cash so I can split it amongst my brothers.”
There was a long silence, and even through the static Carragh could tell that what she’d said had stung. “Why would you think that?”
“It’s what everyone is thinking! How is it that the Chinese girl ended up with a two million dollar house, when the son and grandsons of Eileen Ryan’s blood got only half that between the four of them? Of course I’m expected to sell the place and share the money.”
“Carragh—”
“I have to go. I’ll talk to you when I’m back in Dublin.”
Accustomed as she was to mobiles, Carragh now discovered the visceral satisfaction of getting to slam down a telephone. Then she sat at the desk and buried her head in her hands, a few hot, angry tears slipping through her fingers. She knew her family loved her. But no matter how hard she tried, she would always be instantly recognizable as not one of them. Different. Other. The daughter who had to prove her gratitude every day by being better and kinder and smarter than any child by blood would have to. The girl who had to be always good and always useful, or she might once more find herself locked in a closet and left behind.
“Is everything all right?” Nessa stood in the open doorway, one hand resting lightly on her cane.
How could it be so hard to find privacy in a ten thousand square foot castle? “Of course. Sorry, I’ll go right back to work.”
Nessa waved her free hand negligently and crossed the vast expanse of hand-loomed rug to a seat before the desk. Despite the fact that Carragh sat in the ostensible seat of power, she felt much like she had in her first interview with the woman.
So it was disconcerting when Nessa said, with real sympathy, “I have some experience with distressed children. Not to say you’re a child, naturally, though at my age anyone younger than fifty seems impossibly young. The point is, I know the look of someone frustrated with a near relative. Can I take it you were speaking to your family?”
It seemed easiest to answer. “My mother.”
“That explains it. Mothers and daughters…an eternal conflict.”
Carragh’s surprise must have read as skepticism, because Nessa added, “I had a mother once, hard as that may be to believe. My father’s second wife. She was younger even than my brother Eamon. From the vantage point of adulthood, I can recognize that her position must have been very difficult. But I’m afraid that, as an adolescent, I found her meek and spineless. And as she died when I was sixteen, I never had the chance to alter my opinion.”
“I’m sorry.” Was that the right thing to say about a loss seventy years in the past? What else could she say—that there appeared to be a multitude of dead mothers crowding into her life these days?
“I appreciate the sentiment, but there is no need. If my mother and I were never close, I had the compensation of my father’s love. To be part of a family means that the loss of one need never mean the loss of the whole. Whatever Aidan and Kyla may think, I provided them all the love I knew how. And if their choices are different than those I would make, at least I am certain that family matters to both of them. If it did not, they would hardly be so combative about it.”
“I see.” Carragh couldn’t think of anything else to say. “I should get back to work.” She slipped out of the study with a grim determination not to think about anything but simply do as she was told. At least she would be left alone tonight, she thought. Nothing more had been said about her attending this party, and she couldn’t wait to escape to her room.
But Aidan cornered her two hours before the reception, in the kitchen with the catering staff. “I’m taking her off now, Mrs. Bell,” he said with authority.
“I’ve told you to call me Maire,” she grumbled affectionately. “Go on, then.”
As they walked out, Carragh said, “Thanks. Though I’d be more grateful if you could grab me some food before I hide away in my room.”
“Hide away? Don’t be ridiculous. You’re coming to the party.”
Her first objection was about as silly as they come. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Kyla will have plenty to choose from.”
Had he really not noticed that his sister was at least six inches taller than she? “Aidan, I’m tired and sweaty and my brain hurts from puzzle-solving and all I want is to take a bath and curl up in bed with a book. Preferably one not written in verse. Why would I give that up for a party full of people I’ve never met?”
“Because I’m asking you to.”
And this, she thought crossly, is how Aidan Gallagher gets anyone to do anything—by turning the full power of those blue eyes and cheekbones and sheer concentrated personality on whoever he’s manipulating. He probably didn’t even know he was doing it.
With a martyred sigh, she said, “You’ll have to ask your sister to lend me something. I don’t have the nerve.”
After a quick bath, Carragh found four outfits to choose from delivered to her room. She laid them on her bed, each one exquisite and expensive and perfectly tailored to the five-foot-ten-inch Kyla. She knew that no matter how she tried to adjust any of them, she would look like a little girl drowning in fashion she couldn’t handle.
Having brought a black cashmere sweater with her, Carragh looked despairingly between the only two options she had to pair it with: a pink-and-orange-plaid pencil skirt or black cropped trousers. Which impression did she wish to give—ebullient schoolgirl or goth-in-training?
A knock on her door proved to be, of all people, Lady Nessa, and Carragh had a momentary—hope? fear?—that the woman would disinvite her downstairs. Her customary elegance had been accented tonight by a silver-beaded dress straight out of Central Casting from the thirties, her chignon highlighted with two ruby-set combs.
Carragh only realized she was carrying something when Lady Nessa held out her arms. Automatically, she took what was being offered and discovered she was holding a weight of heavy fabric.
“Aidan is a thoughtful man, but not a very practical one,” Nessa told her. “Surprisingly unobservant for a police officer. Kyla’s clothing would never fit you, in size or style. I thought you might prefer other options. They’re old-fashioned, but some things are timeless.”
As Carragh gaped at the luxurious items—was that velvet?—Nessa said as she left, “Half an hour. The family is meeting in the music room.”
If Kyla’s items were gorgeous, Lady Nessa’s were something beyond that. Vintage fashion
houses, beading and pearls and velvet and silk and tulle…was there any way she could wear them all?
It came down to two: a black silk dress with blue beads of various shades draping down the skirt in folds, and a vintage Dior skirt and top. She settled on the latter, swapping out the matching top for her own black cashmere. The skirt was steel-gray silk organdy with hand-embroidered flowers in pinks and purples scattered from the wide-banded waist to the calf-length hem. She dried her hair, twisting back pieces from her face and pinning them up to show hints of the peacock coloring beneath, and slipped on her black satin ballet flats. Thanks to Nessa’s unexpected generosity, she wouldn’t embarrass herself in appearance. She could only hope she managed to say the same about her behavior by the end of the night. Best to avoid alcohol. Aidan Gallagher made her nervous enough when she was sober.
* * *
—
Aidan could make it through fancy parties without having to think twice. But those parties and receptions and cocktail hours took place in London, where people knew him mostly as a silent escort to various women. Models, actresses, socialites…the one thing they all had in common was that they were beautiful and they were far more outgoing than he was. That suited him perfectly.
But he couldn’t get away with that tonight. Tonight he was Aidan Gallagher, the seventeenth Viscount Gallagher, trustee of Deeprath Castle and the living representative of generations of Wicklow history. And with Nessa at his back, there was no chance he could get away with not talking. Was that why he’d insisted that Carragh come? Because he wanted someone there he could speak to without second-guessing every word?
But when she walked into the music room, he realized he might have misjudged. He had been thinking of the companion from the library, the mind and personality that could match him thought for thought, and when he was rude, wasn’t afraid to be rude back. He had not imagined this woman in a fitted black top and elegant skirt flaring out from her waist like a highly decorative storm cloud, the whole of it highlighting curves he’d never really noticed before.
Next to him, Philip managed to whistle near-silently. “Who knew the bookworm was so sexy? Oh right—I did.” With a wink at his brother-in-law, he wandered back to his wife, who was watching him closely.
Could he get away with hitting Philip? Probably not till the evening was over. Nessa would never forgive him. She entered just behind Carragh, as though she’d been watching and planning the perfect entrance. While Carragh hovered awkwardly as the outsider, Nessa surveyed them all silently, one by one, like a general surveying her troops.
“This night is important. If we must leave Wicklow, let us do it with our heads held high as worthy successors to all who have come before us.”
Aidan did not miss her stress on the word “must.” He had known Nessa would never forgive him for handing over Deeprath. No doubt she would still be complaining about it on her deathbed.
“I expect each of you”—her gaze lingered on Philip—“to be on your best behavior. Drink no more than necessary to be hospitable. And no huddling in corners or isolating yourself with one or two people. Mingle. Be gracious.”
“Is that an order?” Kyla asked with thick irony.
“You may consider it whatever you like so long as you obey.”
It was like being young again, Aidan reflected, with Nessa and Kyla at odds and he left to be the peacemaker. Recognizing it didn’t make his response less instinctual. “We will do our best. Won’t we, Kyla?”
Her eye roll held all the long memories of siblings, the first time since he’d returned to Ireland that he could see beneath his sister’s brittle poise and cynicism. It made him smile in return. A good beginning to the evening.
Aidan had almost hoped that no one would come, but as usual, Nessa had judged the community wisely. Curiosity ensured a crowd, even if memory and affection didn’t. Deeprath Castle had not seen a party since the summer of 1992, and no one would miss the chance to see inside the place where a double murder had happened.
Of course the Gallaghers were overdressed, what with Aidan and Philip in dinner jackets and the women in high fashion. But it was what people expected, so no guest looked twice between their own High Street clothing and the bespoke dress of their hosts.
Aidan had never attended a party like this at Deeprath; he’d been always too young. But he remembered them, remembered many of them, for his mother had loved parties and people and laughter. He’d spent many hours pressed up against the banisters of the gallery overlooking the Tudor hall, Kyla beside him spinning stories about the guests. She’d always had a wicked sense of humor.
He found he was quite capable of behaving appropriately by putting on a slightly different mask than his London one. The mask of the viscount was a little stiff, a little formal, but the people here had not seen him since he was ten years old. They were in no position to judge the authenticity of his public persona.
Some of them he remembered, but many were strangers. If this had been England, the night would have passed without a single awkward reference to the past and what had happened here. But the Irish knew all about tragedy and had no problem talking about it. They called it “the calamity” and referred to it as casually as the weather, moving in and out of their conversations without any awkward pauses.
Nessa, dressed in timeless black, was in her element, and so—in a manner he had never seen before—was his sister. Kyla also wore black, an off-the-shoulder lace dress with a long, sheer overlay that highlighted her legs. She might have physically resembled their great-aunt, but as he watched her in animated conversation with a gentleman who looked ninety if he was a day, all he could see was their mother. Lily Gallagher’d had the same expressive hands and face, and the generosity of self that made every listener feel they were the most important person in the world. How had he missed that in his sister all these years?
Probably because their interactions had been mostly confined to texts and phone calls since her marriage. And that was as much his fault as hers—though Philip took a large share of the blame as well.
Speaking of whom…no one could accuse Philip Grant of not being sociable. As Aidan watched, half listening to the church organist pouring out two decades’ worth of parish gossip in his ear, Philip moved easily from Father Hennessy, nodding at the solicitor, Winthrop, before inserting himself into a group composed of local teachers and Carragh. Aidan’s blood pressure rose correspondingly the nearer his brother-in-law got to her.
When Philip managed to cut Carragh neatly away from the group, Aidan abruptly said to the organist, “Do excuse me, Mrs. Donovan. I’ve got to see to the music.”
A total lie, for Nessa had the quartet in perfect order, and even as he moved across the hall they began to play dance music. Big band, swing…he supposed he should be grateful they weren’t playing waltzes. At one point Nessa had wanted this to be a masquerade ball.
Carragh’s face was set in an expression that he guessed meant Philip was being offensive. He sailed straight in. “Time to find your wife, Philip. Nessa will expect us to lead out the dancing.”
“With you partnering your great-aunt? More luck to you.”
“Nessa made clear that she would not be dancing tonight.” Aidan extended his hand. “I’m going to dance with Carragh.”
He was feeling quite pleased with himself, leading her to the center of the hall, when she asked, “Do you always snap your fingers at a woman and expect her to follow?”
“That wasn’t…I didn’t mean to. I only wanted to help.”
“Next time, you might try asking if I need help. Or if I want to dance.”
He tried not to smile, chastened though he was. “Would you like to dance, Carragh?”
“I don’t know that I’d like to, but I will. If you promise me that you know what you’re doing and won’t let me trip over myself in front of everyone.”
“No tripping,” he promised.
The skirt she wore was perfect for dancing, swishing against him as he le
d her through the simplest of box steps. Perhaps there was something to be said for a dress made with ten yards of fabric as opposed to slinky gowns falling straight to the floor. He almost wished Nessa would request a waltz.
Carragh broke his moment of sentimentality with an abrupt question. “Do you think Philip might have stolen the letters from my room?”
“The ones my mother wrote to your grandmother? Why would he?”
“Why would anyone? Because he thought there might be something in them he didn’t want me to read.”
He didn’t answer for several beats, then lowered his voice for good measure. “Carragh, if you think those letters were taken to protect someone, then you’re implying that whoever took them is the person who killed my parents.”
“I know.”
By now he was speaking so quietly he was more or less whispering in her ear. “Do you think Philip capable of that?”
“You tell me.”
He thought Philip careless and reckless with other people’s lives, he thought him of questionable business honesty, and he knew him for a marital cheat and liar. But a murderer?
“It has to be someone, Aidan,” Carragh insisted as the music swelled to its close. “Someone you know. You’re going to have to deal with that fact if you want the truth.”
With that, she slipped away, and Aidan’s affability went with her. He retreated into the aloofness and meaningless politeness that had long been his shield. In that mood, the only way to make the rest of the evening tolerable was alcohol. He never drank more than he could handle, for he desperately hated being out of control, but tonight it failed even to deliver the customary effect of knocking off the too-bright edges of everything.
Instead, he found himself recalling long-ago moments with astonishing clarity. It was as though memories overlaid everything he saw, giving an odd impression of time flickering in and out of perspective.
Philip, busy being charming to a sixty-year-old retired judge, altered between one breath and the next in Aidan’s eyes from the slightly dissolute mid-forties businessman to the sharp-featured university student whose fair hair flopped over his eyes and whose laugh rang through Deeprath with unnerving regularity.
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