The Fire and the Earth: Glenncailty Castle, Book 2 (19 page)

“That sounds quite serious, Missus,” Sorcha said with a smile. She had no doubt that Caera Cassidy would be Caera Wilcox soon. “I’ll tell Elizabeth that we need the sales and catering manager hired soon, so there’s someone here to plan your wedding.”

“Well now, Tim hasn’t said anything about that yet. We’re just enjoying each other.”

Sorcha nodded. Little did Caera know that Tim had emailed her looking for Caera’s parents’ number so he could ask her father for permission to ask her to marry him.

“And how is Glenncailty? How’re you and Rory and everyone?”

“Well, we’ve had a bit of drama here.”

“Tell me.”

“We opened the secret room, the one in the west wing.”

Caera’s mouth dropped open. “No. You didn’t. What was in there?”

Sorcha grimaced. “It was a nursery, a pretty nursery, with human bones in it.”

Sorcha told Caera everything, from following Séan to the second floor to his possession-fueled rage to her “vision” or memory and finally about the bones themselves.

When she was done, Caera was silent, taking it all in.

“God rest those poor children,” she said finally. “But there’s something you left out.”

“There is?”

“You slept with Séan, didn’t you?”

Sorcha held still, hoping Ceara wouldn’t be able to read her expression from the slightly grainy computer camera.

“You did!”

Or maybe not.

“All right, I did.”

“Why? No wait, I know why, but why now? You’ve stayed away from him.”

“Well, the first time was because I thought Glenncailty was closing. I told him about what happened to you, about the ghost attack. I realized that the things he said when the castle opened were true—Glenncailty is dangerous. We agreed to go to Seamus, but before we could, he went crazy and tore up the west wing.”

“So maybe the ghosts were trying to get someone to open that room, to find the people inside.”

“That what I’m thinking and what he thinks too.”

“So Glenncailty isn’t closing.”

“I guess we’ll have to see if discovering dead people drives away guests or brings them in.”

“Then I’ve no fear I’ll have a job to come back to. Maybe you can have a ghost-themed grand opening for the spa.”

Sorcha laughed. “And you’re sure you’re coming back?”

“Of course, and I’m deadly serious about getting Elizabeth to turn one of the outbuildings into a recording studio and cottage. And Tim says he’ll be a bellboy.”

“Elizabeth has already worked it into the schedule, and I may take Tim up on his offer, but I’m afraid you’ll have to pay him in sexual favors.”

“The things I do for you,” Caera said, shaking her head. She turned away from the camera for a moment. Then Tim Wilcox appeared on screen, his cheek pressed to Caera’s.

“Hello, Sorcha.”

“Hello, Tim. How’re you?”

“In love with the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Caera rolled her eyes, but she was blushing.

“You’d better be treating her well.”

“Of course! We’re famous musicians on tour, we eat nothing but the finest hotdogs.”

“You’d best come home soon, so you can have some proper food.”

“What I want is proper tea,” Caera said with a sigh.

“We have tea,” Tim protested.

“You have fancy loose leaf white tea with citrus and Lord only knows what. I just want some proper Barry’s.”

“I can send you—”

“Sorcha!” Kristina burst into the staff room. “Please, you have to come.”

“What—”

“Chef Fontaine, the doctor, fighting.” Kristina was rattled and stumbled over her words. She threw her hands in the air. “Fighting, knife!”

Sorcha jumped up. “I’ll talk to you later,” she yelled at the computer.

“Go stop the mad Frenchman from killing anyone,” Caera called out.

Sorcha reached up to touch the cross she’d put on that morning. It was the gold and pearl one her mother had given her at her confirmation. The kitchen was a brand-new building—the only part of the castle that had been added when the hotel opened, rather than renovated, so there couldn’t be any ghosts there.

Nonetheless, as she sprinted through the lobby she started reciting prayers. She wasn’t sure was ready to face a possessed man in a room full of knifes.

Chapter Twelve

A Family of Her Own

At six-thirty that evening, Sorcha rang the bell at Séan’s house. The chimes sounded prettily from inside, and she adjusted the bouquet of flowers she held. She took a few deep breaths and tried to calm herself. It had been a stressful day, though luckily Tristan hadn’t been possessed—he’d only been threatening Dr. Heavey. Now she was at Séan’s door, not sure what new stress the evening would bring.

It was a terrible time to come—six-thirty was right at the dinner hour, though Sorcha herself always ate closer to eight. She’d debated waiting, but coming any later than this seemed just as odd. Séan hadn’t answered when she’d called, so she was taking him at his word and showing up after work.

But it wasn’t Séan she worried about. It was his mother.

She’d met Joan Donnovan a few times at Mass and at the market. She was a nice woman and a well-respected member of the community.

She was not a woman Sorcha wanted to cross.

To that end, Sorcha had changed from a suit to a pretty knee-length green skirt and white blouse. She was wearing her pearls and a plaid scarf. It was a casual yet conservative outfit. It was not a going-to-meet-my-boyfriend’s-mom outfit, because that wasn’t what this was. First of all, she’d met Joan before. Second, she and Séan were… They were…

Sorcha had no idea what they were, but with no future, there was no point in labeling it.

Joan opened the door. She was wearing gray slacks, a purple cotton top and a lovely scarf tied and pinned at her shoulder.

“Sorcha, please come in.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Donnovan. I hope I’m not here at an inconvenient time. I’m stopping by to look at some old records Séan says you might have. If I’m intruding, I can come back later.”

“Of course not. Séan mentioned you were coming.”

“Wonderful. These are for you, for letting me interrupt your evening.” She held out the flowers. Her mother had been a stickler for manners, especially after they’d turned their home into a guesthouse. She’d drilled proper manners into Sorcha, and that included never showing up at someone’s home empty handed. Normally she’d go for wine, but since she wasn’t sure if Joan drank she’d opted for flowers.

“Thank you very much, these are lovely. Please, follow me,” Joan said.

“Is Séan here?”

“He’s still milking but should be back shortly. This will give us a chance to chat.”

Sorcha stiffened. “I don’t want to take up any of your time. If you let me know where the records are kept, I’ll get started.”

“Nonsense.” She opened a door and ushered Sorcha in. “Please have a seat. Give me just a moment to get some tea for us.”

Sorcha looked around and groaned. She was in the formal front room. There was a round table with four chairs, an ornate carved-back sofa and a beautiful armoire. Framed portraits hung on the walls.

She was glad she’d dressed up, because it was clear that Joan had been expecting her, and she was not treating this as a casual drop-round visit. Most Irish front parlors were reserved for important company and holidays. Sorcha took a seat at the small table, which was covered with a lace tablecloth.

Joan returned holding a tray. On it was a beautiful white teapot and delicate cups and saucers as well as a plate of scones and the accompanying sweet butter and jam. Sorcha thanked the older woman and accepted a cup of tea as well as a small plate with a scone on it.

“This is lovely, thank you for going to the trouble.”

“It was my pleasure. I rarely have such delightful company come around.”

“And thank you also for allowing me to look though your family papers with Séan.”

“I hope you find what you looking for, though it’s terrible what they found.”

Sorcha wasn’t surprised she knew. “Oh, yes, I’m afraid that until the investigation is complete I’m not allowed to discuss it.”

“Of course not, and what a sad thing to think about. We’ll talk about more pleasant things.” Joan smiled and raised her cup. “So tell me a bit about yourself. Where are you from?”

Sorcha had walked right into that, and from the glint in Joan’s eye that was exactly what she intended. Sorcha considered herself a master of steering conversations after so many years of doing it while serving breakfast to guests, but Joan was the real master here.

“I’m from Athlone.”

“A lovely part of the world. And your family still lives there?”

“My mother. My father passed away when I was young.”

“God rest his soul.”

“Thank you.”

“Séan is my
macin bon
, and my daughter is lovely, but it is hard to have her so far away. It would be nice to have a daughter closer to home.”

Sorcha took a bite of scone and started imagining all the horrible things she would do to Séan when she got her hands on him. Whatever he’d said to his mother, it was clear that she knew there was something between them and saw this as a time for her to get to know her son’s significant other.

Maybe this was her meet-her-boyfriend’s-mother outfit after all. Except she and Séan could never be.

She pushed that thought, and the accompanying anger and sadness, down.

“My mother and I were very close.”

“Were? I’m sorry dear, what happened?”

Agh!
It was like having a conversation with a MI-6 agent.

“Only that I grew up and moved away,” she lied with a smile.

“You remind me a bit of myself. I did the same, moving to Dublin, then here, while my family is in Kerry.”

“Kerry is lovely. Where in Kerry are you from?”

“Oh you don’t want to hear about me. Tell me, how did you come to work at Glenncailty?”

A long half hour later, Sorcha had told Joan more about herself than most of her co-workers knew. Joan was intelligent, funny and strong—the kind of woman that Sorcha admired. She would be an excellent mother-in-law and would be a wonderful grandma to some lucky children.

Which was exactly why Sorcha would not be that daughter-in-law. Séan was a Donnovan, one of the oldest and most respected families in the parish. He had a name to carry on, a farm that needed to be passed down to someone. Sorcha knew that there were people who chose not to have children or who couldn’t have them and went on to live perfectly wonderful lives, and maybe that would work with Séan, for a while. But the day would come when the idea of the family name dying out, of the farm being divided up and sold off, would be too horrible to bear.

“Ma?” Séan called out.

They both looked to the door.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Joan said, rising.

The door opened and a rumpled, dirty, Séan stuck his head in. His eyes widened when he saw Sorcha. “Sorcha.”

“Good evening, Séan,” she said.

“Now, Séan, you need to go shower and put on something proper before we have dinner.” Joan waved him out.

“Why are you in here?” Séan asked.

“Because I’m entertaining a lovely guest. Did you expect me to seat your young lady in the kitchen?”

Both Sorcha and Séan stiffened. He looked at her and she glared back now that his mother couldn’t see her.

“Mother, I…she’s…”

“Go shower—dinner is almost ready.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude on your meal,” Sorcha said, rising.

“Nonsense.” Joan looked between them, her gaze steely. “You’ll wait here, Sorcha. Séan will go shower and then we’ll have a nice meal.”

Sorcha sank back into her chair. Joan stacked the tea things on the tray and then hustled out, shooing Séan in front of her.

They ate dinner together seated at the formal table, drinking from Waterford crystal glasses and eating off Belleek china. Over dinner, the tension eased as they talked about everything from parish to national politics, sports and science. Since she’d seen the books in his room, Sorcha wasn’t surprised that Séan knew the most surprising things. Their conversation ranged from topics as diverse as Irish history to military strategy. He was generally quiet, but once he started talking he always had something interesting to say. For her part, Sorcha forgot everything else and relaxed, enjoying the lovely meal and even more lovely conversation.

After they were done and the dishes had been taken to the kitchen, Joan declared that she needed a little rest and suggested they take a walk. Sorcha nodded, not bothering to argue. Séan found her a coat, socks and a pair of rubber boots—more of his sister’s clothes, she assumed—before pulling on his own items and grabbing a flashlight.

It was fully dark outside, the sky cloudless and the air cold. Once away from the lights of the house, the starlight seemed to grow brighter, so much so that Séan tucked the flashlight into his pocket and they walked side by side in the starlight.