Haunted Ground (33 page)

The Present

The opportunity didn’t present itself until a few days later.  Aidan and I finally took out the manuscript and he began to read, since I had a hard time making out some of the old-fashioned phrases.  It began with Anne Hughes’s introduction, which might have been added later, but the narrative was actually written by her mother, Rowan Aldridge, recounting the events that led up to her beloved Brendan’s death.  Both Aidan and I teared up as we read about their tender love story and the hanging which led to Brendan’s suicide, but it was the later chapters that left us stunned.  Rowan stoically described her life with Stephen, a life that she accepted for the sake of her daughter and never complained about.  She’d learned to live without Brendan, but it was him she’d always loved.  By all accounts, Stephen had been a good man who loved and cherished her, but it wasn’t until the day he died that Rowan found out the truth. 

Aidan’s voice shook slightly as he read of Stephen’s deathbed confession to Rowan that he had been the one to tip off Cromwell’s men as to Brendan Carr’s whereabouts, and therefore responsible for the death of both Reverend Pole and Brendan.  It was thanks to him that Rowan nearly died and was left widowed only a few weeks after her marriage.  It seemed that Stephen knew all along that Anne wasn’t his, but he raised her as his own as penance for his guilt.  Rowan spent thirty years married to a man who destroyed her happiness and nearly caused the death of her and her child, and she never forgave him.

“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 no
w
—
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 b
e
—
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.

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.  He 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. 

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www.irinashapiro.com
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