The Sword of the Banshee (2 page)

Lorna's mother and the servants remained ignorant of the girl’s midnight excursion, but they did note a marked change in them. Lorna awakened every night for a month after the ordeal, terrified and convinced someone was lurking in her room. India simply stopped eating, wanting nothing more than to return home to the Ballydunne Valley. County Cork was the distance she needed to find peace of mind.

Time passed and she did find some peace. As the years passed, India dismissed the terror of that night as schoolgirl dramatics, but whenever she smelled sandalwood, a queer feeling crept up her spine. It was at those times a small part of her wondered if the hideous monster would ever find her again.

A short time later, he did.

Ballydunne 1767

Chapter 2

India was told that her eyes changed color as often as the Ballyhoura Mountains changed moods. She thought about these words as she gazed across the heath at the green hills blurring in the evening mist. The Ballyhouras unfolded outside her window like a rumpled blanket of green velvet. They did change moods, and today in the gathering gloom, they looked forlorn and melancholy.

India rose from the window seat and walked across her bed chamber. The ache had returned to her stomach. It had plagued her off and on since her father had died six months ago.

She looked at her reflection in the washstand mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying.  Pouring some water into a bowl, she splashed her face and looked at her image again.

She felt so uncertain about everything. Only a few months ago she had been eager for her future. She had looked forward to her sixteenth year. There had been talk of a grand soiree to present her in Dublin on her birthday and then possible suitors, but her father had grown ill. His malady started out as a mere headache, and next his vision blurred. Then in a matter of weeks, he was thin and gaunt as if something was eating him from the inside out. He went to bed one night and never rose again. It had been a whirlwind of desperation and grief.

India reached for the silver-backed hair brush on the dressing table and began to arrange her hair. Her new wig sat on a stand next to the vanity set. She would not wear it tonight. There was little occasion for gentle folk in the country to wear such ostentation. She instead tied a gold ribbon around her head which set off her honey-colored hair. Next she reached for her azure gown.

On most occasions India dressed herself. She resented the prying eyes of the servants. Her figure was filling out at last, and she wanted her privacy. She would never forget Lorna’s derogatory comments about her appearance.

The girl paused for a moment. She hadn’t thought about her cousin in a long time. She wondered how she fared in Belfast with her new husband. Shaking her head, India stood up and started downstairs. She doubted if she would ever see Lorna again.

When India reached the dining room, her mother announced, "Supper has been changed. It will be an hour later. The guests have been delayed."

Harriet Allen ran her eyes over India's face. She could see she had been crying, and the woman wanted no signs of grief displayed tonight. These guests were special and demanded preferential treatment. Several days after her husband's funeral, Lady Allen had folded up her grief like a handkerchief and tucked it away neatly to be forgotten. She would not tolerate self-indulgent behavior.

"You look pale. Go out for a walk until they arrive."

"Yes, Mother.”

Harriet Allen was a tall straight-backed woman with brown hair and sparrow-like features. She was India's stepparent and the only mother the girl had ever known. Although she was not a warm and loving mother, she was not unkind either. She simply could not accept a product of her husband’s infidelity. Fortunately, the child was oblivious to her reluctant parenting. All she had ever known was Lady Allen’s cool demeanor, so India believed this was how a mother loved.

The air was crisp and fresh on Loughlorcan today. India walked along the shore on a flagstone path with her cloak gathered closely around her. She looked across the lake as a light rain fell on her face. She spied the gamekeeper and his son fishing in the distance. The mist gave them an ethereal, unworldly appearance. She quickened her pace to keep warm. Her scarlet cloak stood out against the gray of the manor house behind her.

     The Allen country home had been in the valley for over one hundred years. The family was granted the lands in 1580 by Queen Elizabeth, and for several generations they had acted as absentee landlords. When trouble began during the first plantation period, the patriarch Charles Allen believed a presence was needed in the valley, so the manor house was erected. It was a modest e-shaped country home with a cold gray stone facade covered in vines. The Allens had erected larger, smarter residences in Dublin and Glastonbury, but since it was located in Ireland, a modest country home was enough.     

Glastonbury was India’s first home. This is where Lord Allen brought the child when she was first born. His only explanation to Harriet was that India was the product of a brief liaison with an Irish tenant woman and that the mother had died in child bed.  He stated that they would raise the girl as their own offspring and that Harriet would move to Ireland with the child away from the gossip of Glastonbury. Since Lady Allen had been unsuccessful for years in producing an heir, she offered little resistance to this arrangement, but secretly she resented the girl's presence.

The flagstone path ended, but India continued walking around Loughlorcan on a deer trail. This was the part of the valley she loved where streams trickled down from the mountains, and the woodlands were lush and plentiful filled with bluebells, mushrooms, and anemones. India had been wandering here alone as long as she could remember. Most girls her age needed constant companionship and endless chatter, but India was not like most of her peers. She was aloof and detached, preferring long walks, the company of books, and her pianoforte. In Dublin, she had several friends with whom she shared confidences, but when she was in the country, she was completely content entertaining herself.

India stopped and lifted her skirts stepping daintily over a greasy part of the trail.  It was essential she remain crisp and clean tonight. She wondered who the supper guests were and why her mother was so nervous. Anxious about her future, India's stomach began to churn again. She wondered if she would be presented in Dublin or merely married off in a hasty fashion to the first suitor who came along. She also wondered if her mother would be pressed to remarry since widows inherited only a third of their husband's property.

It was unusual having guests at Ballydunne. When Lord Allen was alive he was seldom in residence, so life was quiet in the country. If the couple did entertain, it was usually in Dublin with a few friends or family.  Every winter, just before Christmas, Lady Allen would move to their town house in the city, and India would stay with Lord Allen's sister, Flora Byrne, and her daughter Lorna. It was here that India received her education. A tutor was engaged for the girls and several young people from good Dublin families attended as well. Many of the students paired up over the years and some, like Lorna, even married fellow students, but India had never caught the attention of any boy. Her legs were too long and her manner too subdued. Young men found her too serious and bookish.

Usually away on business, Lord Allen saw little of his wife and daughter. When he was in residence, he was in the study or conducting business with the tenants. He was cold and distant with his wife and showed little interest in his daughter. Yet on one occasion he did call for India to speak with her on a subject of great importance. It was on her seventh birthday. India was called to Lord Allen’s study, and she stood in front of his large oak desk at strict attention wondering what she had done wrong.

Lord Allen put his quill down, cleared his throat and looked at the girl. She was such a shy wispy little thing, and he wondered if she could stand the shock of what he was about to say.

“My dear girl, since you have arrived at your seventh year in good health, I believe there is something you must know before others inform you cruelly. This knowledge may come as a shock to you, but you must enter adulthood fully informed." He paused a moment waiting for a reaction, but the child remained mute and motionless. "You--you are not of your mother’s womb. Your actual mother was of low birth and died in
child bed.
Upon her death, I decided to raise you as my own. I have never regretted this decision. You have been an obedient God-fearing child, and you've given us little cause for worry."

John Allen looked into his daughter’s eyes. They were hooded and dark. 

"This is
not
something of which to be ashamed, but it is
not
something to be shared with others either.” He paused again looking for a response, but she said nothing. “Do you have anything to say or ask?” 

Slowly, India shook her head, looking at the floor.

Lord Allen pursed his lips and mumbled, “Well then, that will be all,” and he dismissed her with a sigh, picking up his quill again.

India returned to her room, unmoved. The talk did not scar her. It did not injure her. In fact the information had little impact the girl at all. Since her father felt no shame regarding her birth, she did not feel diminished by it either, yet she never forgot his words.

India heard a carriage on the road above and knew the guests were beginning to arrive. It was time to return home. She was still far from the house, and thunder began to rumble. She decided to take a shortcut and pushed through the brush climbing up from the woods stepping onto the long winding driveway to the manor.

Several drops of rain splashed on her face as the wind began to move the trees. India quickened her pace. Suddenly lightning blazed across the sky followed by a crack of thunder. The rain intensified, pelting and stinging her skin. If her mother had to hold back supper for her she would be furious, so India began to run.

As she came around a bend in the road, she heard the thundering of hooves. A carriage roared up behind her. Terrified, she slid down the embankment, grabbing a sapling.

When the driver realized what had happened he jerked the horses to a stop and jumped down. A gentleman stepped out from the coach, and the two men slipped down the embankment to help India back up again. They were brimming with apologies, brushing the leaves from her cloak, asking her if she was injured
.

"I am unharmed," she gasped. "Please, it is nothing."

“Come into the coach,” the gentleman said taking India’s arm.

She was soaked and filthy. Unsteadily, she stepped in and dropped onto the seat dragging her drenched skirts in behind her. The gentleman climbed in after her and shut the door. With two smart raps on the roof they began moving toward the manor.

“I am afraid your gown is ruined,” the gentleman said. “Again my sincere apologies, in my haste I grew careless. I did so want to impress Lady Allen on this evening, but it seems as if I have made a mess of things.”

He stared at India a moment. “You must be Harriet’s daughter,” he said, smiling apologetically.

India glanced at him quickly then looked away. He was a distinguished middle aged gentleman dressed in evening attire and a powdered wig. His eyes were narrow and puffy with age, but he had a voice as rich and fine as chocolate.

"I am Colm Fitzpatrick one of your guests this evening.”

He bent over to kiss her hand, and India caught a whiff of sandalwood. She froze. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe, and her skin began to crawl. Rigid in her seat, India tried unsuccessfully to calm herself. All the terror of that night at Cragmere Ruins returned in a rush; the raging fire, the white phantoms holding torches, the leader ranting on the stone wall and his violent threats afterward.

She sat stiffly, wringing her hands in her lap. She felt foolish, but still her heart pounded.
This is outrageous.
How could this fine gentleman be the demon on the hill?

“My dear, you are so pale. Are you sick?” he asked.

“No, it is nothing. Please believe me,” she whispered.

As he leaned toward her, the scent of sandalwood enveloped her again, this time even more pungent, and she felt her stomach lurch. His voice thick with seduction. She recognized the demon. Too terrified to cry out, she sat staring at him wide-eyed with parted lips.

Fitzpatrick’s smile dropped. He saw the look in her eyes. Suddenly, hatred flashed across his face. He caught himself, smiled and said smoothly, “You have the most unusual eyes I have ever seen, my dear. I cannot decide on the color. Are they green or blue?”

India looked at the floor and mumbled, “I am not sure.”

At that moment, the carriage reached the manor. The coachman opened the door, and before Fitzpatrick could say anything more, India bolted out of the vehicle and up the stairs to her room slamming the door behind her and locking it. She stood panting, trying to understand what had just happened. She rubbed her forehead trying to organize her thoughts.
I must tell Mother! But she won't believe me.
She paced back and forth.
No, I will plead illness and stay in my room.
Yet India knew her mother would never allow her to spend the night hiding.