The Fire and the Earth: Glenncailty Castle, Book 2 (21 page)

“What is it?”

“It might be easier to show you. Would you, uh, would you like to have breakfast with me?”

“Séan, it’s not a good idea.” For so very many reasons.

“Yes, it is. I need your help to figure this out and then, once we’re done with ghosts and bones, we’re going to talk. You’re not the only one who’s worried about the future, and I want a turn to tell you what I want and what I feel.”

Sorcha pressed her lips together and covered her face with one hand. Finally, she said, “I’d like breakfast.”

“Would nine work? I’m slow at the milking because of my hands, but I should be done by then. Come out to the house.”

“Yes, that will work, but I’m bringing breakfast.”

“Very well, and Sorcha?”

“Yes?”

“I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

“I hope you get some sleep, Séan. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Sorcha tossed the phone away and lay back. Staring at the ceiling, she realized she was smiling, that the sound of his voice had lightened the heavy, dark sadness that had enveloped her since she’d left him earlier.

Chapter Thirteen

The Lost Records

Sorcha’s rash offer to bring breakfast resulted in an hour spent cajoling the chefs who were in the castle kitchen to stop their prep work and fire up the grills. She managed to sneak out with her takeaway boxes before Tristan arrived. She stopped again in Cailtytown and grabbed some lovely fresh-baked muffins.

A mere twelve hours after she’d run out of Séan’s home in tears, she was back. As she drove up, Séan called out to her. She stuck her arm through the open window and waved.

He was walking across the field they’d been in last night. His long legs ate up the distance, and the morning sun haloed his hair in gold. She pulled up in front of the house and grabbed her breakfast bags. Rather than go to the front door, she went around to the side and met him at the back.

“Good morning,” she said as he came closer. Up close, she could see the shadows under his eyes, and there was a line between his brows as if he were worried or in pain. “Séan, are you all right?”

“Yes, I just need put the braces on my fingers for a bit and maybe take some pain tablets.”

Sorcha opened the door and preceded him in. The kitchen table was covered in books and papers. A trunk-like wood box sat on the floor by one of the chairs. The whole room smelled of dust, which was almost enough to overpower the smell of cow coming off Séan.

“I’ll clear this away.” Séan started to tidy the papers.

“No, don’t be silly. We can eat in the front room where we ate last night.”

“We could eat in the living room. There’s no table, but the couch is more comfortable than the chairs in the front room.”

“That sounds good.”

“I’ll shower quick-like.”

She expected him to go upstairs, but instead he went back into the mudroom, pulling the door closed behind him. It must not have latched because it fell open a bit. Sorcha craned her neck to see him stripping off his clothes. The muscles in his shoulders, arms and chest flexed, and she had to look away.

“Will your mother be joining us?” she called out.

“I’m not sure. She’s in her rooms.”

“Upstairs?”

“No, the addition off the back. It was built for my grandmother, who died years ago, and after my father passed away, we converted it into a little flat for her. She said that she was old and wanted to give the house over to me and my…to me.”

“Well, that’s nice that she has her own space.”

“The house is still hers, there’s no doubt in that.”

Sorcha laughed. “It can be hard to let go of your home, especially if you’re still living there.”

There was a pause, then Séan said, “I forgot you said your mother turned your house into a guesthouse.”

“What had once been my home was suddenly a business, except for a little flat off the kitchen.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to be. It was hard at the time, but the guesthouse kept us going and taught me everything I know about guest relations.”

“Back in a moment.”

There was the sound of a door opening and closing, and then she heard water turn on. Curious, she peaked into the mudroom and saw that there was a third door besides the one to the outside and the one that led to the kitchen. It was covered in coats, so she hadn’t realized there was anything there. Séan must be showering in a bathroom she hadn’t noticed.

She took the opportunity to take everything out of the bags. She made three plates of beans, eggs, rashers, sausage and tomato and put one in the oven for Joan. After a quick search, she found a basket for the muffins and place mats. She carried those into the living room, which had a comfortable lived-in feeling. She put out the place mats and muffins, then carried in napkins, silverware and the plates before putting the water on for tea. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed having her own kitchen, how peaceful and pleasurable it was to prepare and serve a meal.

Séan entered the kitchen, his hair wet, trousers on and long-sleeved dress shirt hanging open. He smiled briefly, but the line between his eyebrows was still there.

“Go sit, I’ll bring you tea. Where is the medicine kept?” Sorcha asked.

“That cupboard there.”

She found painkillers and the braces he’d been wearing that night he’d come to Glenncailty. She took them and two mugs of tea in to Séan.

He tossed back the pain meds, then started to put the braces on. Sorcha took them from him and carefully strapped his hands in place.

“Your knuckles are healing.”

He watched her fingers as she carefully positioned his palm, his wrist.

“Do they hurt?”

“Not much. I had to work on the milking machine and banged them a bit.”

“You should be careful.”

“I am.”

When the last bit of Velcro was patted into place, she traced the back of his hands, his fingers. There was something intimate about touching another person’s hands, and Sorcha acutely felt that intimacy as she sat there in the cozy living room. His hands were scarred and worn. You could tell by looking at them that he worked with them, using them. Séan turned his hand over, tracing her palm with two of the fingers not strapped down. She felt the touch throughout her whole body.

Sorcha sat back and pressed her hands to her knees. “Can you eat with those on?”

“Well enough.” He awkwardly picked up the fork in one hand. She helped him balance the plate on his lap.

They ate in silence. Sorcha sat in the chair beside the couch, perched on the edge and tense. Silence between them had never been easy, and after what happened last night, she was drawn taut as a guitar string, both wanting him to bring it up and dreading that very thing.

It took Sorcha about ten minutes to realize that the silence on Séan’s part wasn’t due to tension but exhaustion. He bolted his food, then gingerly transferred the plate to the table before picking up a muffin and sitting back, the pastry cradled against one of the braces. He leaned his head back on the couch.

Sorcha set down her own plate as she looked at him with new eyes. “Did you get any sleep?”

“A few hours.”

“You need to rest. Go back to bed.”

“I’ll be fine. I want to show you what I found.”

“And I’m worried about you and want you to get some sleep.”

“The papers are in the kitchen, let’s go in there.” Séan lifted his head, made as if to rise.

Sorcha picked up her plate. “I’m not done with breakfast yet.”

“Oh, well then, I’ll let you finish.”

Séan settled back, the muffin forgotten on his lap, and was asleep within minutes.

Sorcha waited to make sure he was really asleep before carefully rising. She left the plates, not wanting to make noise that might wake him, and went back into the kitchen. She’d leave and come back later, once he’d gotten some sleep.

As she was getting ready to leave, she glanced at the papers on the kitchen table.

There were books, stacks of envelopes and bundles of faded yellow paper. Most were sorted into piles, but a few pieces were spread out in front of one of the chairs, as if the person sitting in the chair had been looking at them. These must be the things Séan had found when he called her.

She’d just have a peek.

Dropping into the chair, Sorcha looked at what was before her. There was one slim volume, a smaller journal-style book and a stack of papers on top of another little book. She started with the papers. The ink was faded and it was hard for her to see the writing. When she picked up the first sheet, the edges cracked.

Setting the paper back down, she quickly braided her hair to keep it out of the way and then bent over, bringing her nose to within inches of the sheet.

It was a list of names, that much she could make out.

Moving carefully, she turned the top page over so she could see the second one. This one was easier to read, the ink not as faded. She frowned as she looked down the list of names. There was something off about them.

It took her a few minutes before she realized that though all the names were written in pretty cursive, they were different handwritings. Focusing on just the letter “O”, she examined the way the letter was written, and the handwritings were distinctly different. Maybe it was some sort of census report.

She turned to the next page. It was the same, another list of no more than fifteen names, each in a different handwriting.

Frowning, she flipped the page she’d just turned over, placing the sheets side by side.

The lists were the same. Exactly the same.

There were fewer than twenty sheets in the stack. As she went through them one by one, she saw that the majority of the names were the same, with some disappearing and some new ones added. On the first few pages there was one entry that didn’t have a last name. As she got deeper into the stack, two other single-name entries appeared, for a total of three.

When she reached the end, she turned the stack over again. Whatever this list was, the majority of the people who’d signed it were the same. That made sense if it was some sort of parish register, but there weren’t many names. She went through the sheets a second time. There were repeats of the last names. All together she counted no more than twenty last names among all those listed, and all the first names were male. The three without last names were Charles, Henry and George.

Frowning, she read through the lists again.

Charles, Henry and George were also the only English names—all the others were Irish.

But what was the list from, or of?

Putting the papers away, she turned to the small book that had been hidden underneath. The cover was tearing away, but there was a small white square on the front with the title of the volume.

“‘National School Record, County Meath, Glenncailty Parish,’” she read out loud. “‘1860 to 1870.’”

She opened the little book, touching each entry, imagining the children that they represented. She sucked in a breath. These were the names of children, and if they could figure out what year the bodies in the nursery had died, they might find the names in the book.

Each entry had the child’s name, age and religion, the name of the father and the father’s occupation. She flipped a few pages until she saw a name she recognized from the paper lists.
Murtagh O’Donnabhain, age nine, Catholic, father Aoghan O’Donnabhain, a farmer.

Some of the records had notes like “missing left hand,” “poor behavior,” and “troubled since mother’s death.” It made her sad to think about these children, who had lived and died so long ago.

She put the record book and papers side by side. Each sheet seemed to correspond roughly to one year in the record book, though there were girls in the record book that weren’t on the written sheets. She looked at the papers again, at the different handwriting.

“They signed their names,” she said, tracing the old, faded script. To a modern eye, the elaborate writing style seemed elegant, but if these records were from the 1800s then this elegant handwriting would have been one of the things they learned in school. She smiled, imagining each boy carefully signing his name.

But what about the boys with no last names?

She flipped through until she found them in the record book. Charles was the first to show up, in 1860, at the age of five. Two years later, Henry was also in the book, and George was added four years after that. Finally, in 1866, Charles was listed as age eleven, Henry age nine and George age five. There was no last name or father listed for them. All it had was their name and age, which was pitiful compared to the other robust records.

While all this was interesting, there was no way of knowing which of these children might be the two little bodies they’d found in the nursery.

Putting the school records aside, she turned to the slim volume. This one wasn’t labeled, but as soon as she opened it, she knew what it was. There were lists of births, christenings, marriages and deaths. It was a parish record.