The Harp and the Fiddle: Glenncailty Castle, Book 1 (17 page)

Tim grinned, raised his brow and his bow.

Caera went to the second mic, flipped it on, then looked at him.

He bowed out the first mournful notes of “Mother Is the Battle Over?”, a Civil War song about a family torn apart. He sang the first verse, and as he reached the chorus, Caera stepped up to her mic, and, in perfect harmony, they sang the sad chorus.

When Caera’s clear bright voice rang through the room, Tim felt the energy change. He was a good musician, a good singer, but she was something else. 

As the song ended, the crowd applauded. Caera started, as if she’d forgotten there were other people there. Her shoulders were tense, her hands clenched together in front of her belly. She whipped her head to Tim, and he saw the beginnings of panic on her face.

He wouldn’t let her run from this. He started “The Southern Girl’s Reply”, another Civil War ballad. He’d sung it at Free Birds Fly and was planning on recording it for his next studio album, so he’d have to make sure Johnny didn’t choose this song for his compilation CD. When the intro was played, he held a single note and jerked his head towards her mic, as much as he was able with the fiddle under his chin.

She blinked, then understood. She placed her hand on the mic, and sang. Her clear soprano rang pure and true. He’d taken a gamble that she’d remember the words based solely off the few times she’d heard him sing it in sound check, but the gamble paid off. The crowd sat up a little straighter, listening to the words of a song he was sure few of them had heard. Based on an old poem called “True to the Gray”, it was about a woman who remained loyal to her slain Confederate lover even after the war, turning away other men, and wondering if they were the ones who had killed her beloved.

Now it was his turn to join in on the chorus. 

She looked over at him as she sang. She’d relaxed, her hands loosely at her sides, her shoulders down. Pure joy shone in her eyes.

They went from that song to the next, and soon they were experimenting with the music, changing the song as they went, using nothing more than their eyes to convey where they were going. When Tim told the crowd, during a pause while they were brought water, that they were missing out because they’d never heard Caera play the harp, a harp was brought forward, as if it were totally normal for a bar to have a half-size harp in the back room.

Caera ran her hand over the harp in wonder. A chair was passed through the crowd to the stage.

She took a seat, her fingers finding their place on the strings.

Someone in the crowd asked for “Scarborough Fair”,
and Caera obliged, playing it through once on the harp alone, then a second time while she sang and Tim rounded out her sound with the fiddle.

When the song was done, the crowd took a collective breath, then cheered uproariously. 

Caera stood from the harp, then moved to stand by Tim.

He had to stop himself from grabbing her and kissing her. 

“Thank you, for this,” she said, gaze on the crowd.

“Thank
you
,” he said, meaning it.

As the applause died, she sighed, seeming to draw back into herself.

“Woman, you didn’t think we were done, did you?” They’d been playing for over an hour, but he didn’t want this to end. He’d play until his fingers bled if it meant seeing that light within her.

She looked at him and smiled. “Something upbeat?”

“Keep up,” he said, winking, and laid bow to fiddle.

Caera let out a trilling laugh, then stepped back to her mic.

Chapter Twelve

Ghosts and Goodbye

The cold woke him.

The sheet and duvet had slipped down to his waist, and Tim felt goose bumps prickle along his back and arm as he lay on his side facing Caera.

He grabbed the edge of the covers to throw them over her, but she wasn’t there. Tim sat up and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. The pretty—if insanely girly—room they were staying in had a lace canopy on the bed and lace curtains on the window and French doors. Silvery moonlight turned the lace pearly gray and cast odd, broken shadows on the floor. 

Their room was at the back of the house and opened onto a small garden. One of the French doors was open, and the lace panel that covered the glass insets fluttered tightly. 

Sliding out of bed, Tim rooted in his suitcase for a pair of sweats and socks. He quickly dressed, adding shoes and his leather jacket, which was cold and stiff against his bare back and shoulders.

The night air was chill and clear, the slight breeze bringing the scent of lavender and grass. Square stones created a meandering path that led past their door. He had a choice to go left or right. To the left, the beds of flowers gave way to a rose garden. To the right, the garden was wilder, with the small copse of trees towards the back of the property.

Tim went right. 

His shoes were silent on the stones, and he wavered between marveling at the beauty of the night and fearing the long shadows cast by everything around him.

As he approached the trees, he saw that they were in a circle, with a small pond and bench at the center.

Sitting on the bench was a woman all in white, her hair black as ink.

Tim stopped, his heartbeat racing. He knew it was Caera—who else could it be?—but she looked otherworldly. She was like a ghost, waiting there in the little clearing for something, someone.

Making an effort to be quiet, Tim followed the path to the trees. Standing between two of them, he waited. He wouldn’t disturb the peace she’d found here, but he could wait for her, and watch over her while he did it.

It wasn’t long before she turned her head to him. She didn’t seem surprised that he was there. 

He thought about apologizing, or asking if he could stay, but both those things seemed too mundane for this moonlit moment. Instead he went to her, dropping down not onto the bench but on the ground at her feet. She was wrapped in a thin white blanket, but he could see her bare toes peeking out. He lifted her feet into his lap and wrapped his palms over her icy toes.

She let out a little sigh and snuggled deeper into her blanket. Tim leaned back against the edge of the bench. Her fingers curled into his hair, stroked the back of his ear.

They were quiet for a long time in the moonlight and still air.

“I thought you were a ghost,” he said, shifting his now-numb ass on the ground.

“A ghost? No, not yet.”

Tim squeezed her toes. “Not yet?”

“Have you ever wondered what makes some souls stay, what makes them unable to move on and be happy?”

Tim was both fascinated and uncomfortable that they were discussing this as if it were a known fact that ghosts were real. Even after what he’d experienced and Sorcha’s reaction to it, he felt silly entertaining the thought that ghosts were real and not the figment of stressed-out minds and reality TV producers. 

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve always heard that it’s because they had more to do in this life.”

“But doesn’t everyone?” Caera’s voice was low and soft, her accent as dense and rich as the shadows that circled them. “If it were only those who still had more to do, surely the world would be overrun with their ghosts.”

Tim opened his mouth to point out that what she was talking about were zombies and that he’d seen that movie, but it wasn’t the time.

“Why do you think some people turn into ghosts?” he asked instead.

“I wonder if they were never really people, but were always more spirit than man, always destined to be ghosts, and so, maybe, they never really felt alive. Maybe they were just waiting to die.”

Weary resignation marked her words. 

“Caera.” Still holding her feet so they wouldn’t touch the cold ground, Tim turned to face her, going up on one knee. “Is that how you feel? Like you’re not really alive?”

“Sometimes.” He couldn’t read her expression through the shadows that masked her face.

“You are more full of life than most of the people I know. You hide it, pretend it isn’t there, but when you play you light up with life.”

Tim wasn’t sure he was really expressing what he felt, what he saw in her. Frustration that he couldn’t find the right words ate at him, but she nodded as if she understood. 

“That is when I feel alive.”

“Then why are you torturing yourself by refusing to sing, even semi-professionally?”

She shook her head. “I had my chance.”

“You went down a path that didn’t work out. All that means is that you should try again, not punish yourself for the rest of your life, not make yourself feel like a ghost.”

“I cannot undo what I did.”

“You upset and stressed out your parents, I get that, but isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you’re a teenager? You really need to watch more American TV if you think making bad decisions and upsetting your parents is something that’s worth this level of heartbreak.”

She smiled, her teeth flashing in the shadows over her face.

“You make me smile, Tim Wilcox.”

“And you make me so very, very happy, Caera Cassidy.”

“Then let us leave it there.” She leaned forward, emerging from the shadows, and kissed his forehead. “But so you don’t think I’m a coward, you should know that my folly, my mistakes when I left, went far beyond upsetting my parents. I broke things that cannot ever be mended.”

Tim opened his mouth to demand that she tell him the whole story, but then left it, not wanting to start a fight or upset her. Instead, he pulled her in for a kiss. She tasted cold and fresh, like mountain water. Her chilly hair slid over his face, so he captured the strands in his hand, holding her in place for his kiss.

When they broke apart for air, Tim sat back on his heels. They were both cold and it was the middle of the night. The smart thing to do would be to go to bed, but he wasn’t ready for that yet. This little grove had some kind of magic, because he felt more in tune with her here than he had ever before.

He pushed to his feet, but rather than lead her back to the room, he sat on the bench beside her, drawing her to lie back against his chest.

“Tell me a story,” he said against her hair.

“A ghost story?”

“Do you know any good ones?”

“Ah, but of course. Shall I tell you the most famous one in Ireland, or one of Glenncailty’s own?”

“Considering I felt something very creepy-ghost-encountery, I’ll go with a story of Glenncailty’s ghost.”

“Well, then, where to start? There are many, and I hear new ones every year as more people from Cailtytown and throughout the glen come to visit. It seems the glen has always been a place of darkness, though whether that darkness is sad or evil depends on the teller and the story. 

“The castle as it is now was built by the English, for the lord who held the land for the English king. There are no records left about the original lord, and even in England it shows very few records of Glenncailty, but that does not stop the stories about the first master of the castle. It’s said he was a soft man and built the house larger than needed to compensate. When the people of the glen rebelled against him, he hid on the highest floor and ordered their barns burned so they would starve. 

“A man from the far end of the glen came to Glenncailty one day and gave the lord a gift, a wolfhound pup, already trained and though only three months old, larger than any dog anyone had ever seen. With his new companion by his side, the lord grew bolder, and it turned out he was a crueler man than any could have imagined. They say he beat and tortured his serving girls for his own amusement, and when they grew too weary and broken to scream, he sent them away and found newer, younger girls. 

“Some have claimed to see a young woman wearing chains around her wrists and neck, carrying a broom through the upper floors. Her chains rattle and clank, though her footsteps are silent.”

“I hope she’s a ghost because she wanted to haunt that asshole after she died.” 

“A worthy reason to remain, but I don’t know.”

“So what did happen to the guy?”

“Well, anyone who tried to stop the lord or hide from him was hunted down by his wolfhound. The people screamed at the man who had given the lord such a terrible gift, but the man said nothing, only bided his time. 

“One night, this man stood outside the lord’s room. The hound came to the window and growled, but the man whistled a tune he’d taught it as a pup. The hound stopped growling and turned away from the window. A moment later, there were awful screams as the hound turned on his master. The wolfhound killed and ate the Englishman, then ran out of the castle to the side of his true master.”

“Gruesome and fitting end.”

“A wolfhound is the companion of the true master of Glenncailty, even to this day.”

“So, the guy with the unspellable name?”

“Seamus O’Muircheartaigh is the owner of Glenncailty, the master of the castle, and is guarded by two wolfhounds. We are only lucky that we didn’t run across them that night we were in the mews. They roam the grounds at night.”

Tim whistled. “I hadn’t realized how close I’d come to having the crap scared out of me.”

“Ah, well, then maybe I shouldn’t tell you what happened that night while you were sleeping.”

“Uh, no, you should definitely tell me.”

“I’d gone to the west wing to get towels for us, and as I was running back I saw two lights. When I reached the mews, they were waiting over the pool, and then one of them zoomed at you but stopped before it touched you.”

Tim thought back on that moment, of waking up disoriented and blinded by a gold light.

“I thought I was seeing things.”

“Then we both were.”

“So what were those? Ghosts of those tortured girls?”

“I’ve no idea. There are plenty more stories about Glenncailty. Maybe they were just misplaced souls. It’s said that the chapel at the back of the gardens once had a graveyard, but there’s no graveyard there now. Some say the gravestones were removed to hide the graves from the English, because the people had hidden their valuables in the coffins of their loved ones. Some say it’s because a witch was buried there by mistake, a mistake that wasn’t discovered until after her death and two people emerged from the woods, claiming to have been held captive by the witch for twenty years. To hide their mistake, and to bury the evil, the church killed the witnesses and placed their bodies on top of hers before removing the blessing from the ground and razing the stones.”