The Darkling Bride

by Laura Andersen

  As a ten-year-old, he’d distrusted anyone who laughed so easily. Especially anyone who had the habit of ruffling his hair, as Philip did.

  “I can’t decide if you’re lucky or not to grow up with beautiful females in your family,” Philip said, leaning his arms on the gallery railing and musing aloud to Aidan as his mother and Kyla passed through the Great Hall. “It might come as a shock to you when you move into the world and realize most women are nothing like her.”

  Her, singular. Philip had definitely been talking about his mother. And Aidan could recall, distinctly, the expression in Philip’s eyes. He hadn’t been able to name it as a child, but now knew it for what it was—a mix of lust and resentment. Men had been known to kill for such emotions.

  As he moved around the edges of the hall, ignoring those who looked like they didn’t quite have the nerve to approach him, he caught sight of Nessa, and his eyes pulled that doubling trick so that her white hair darkened into the faded chestnut of her sixties and the lines on her face softened and drew back. Her stance, her expression, her upright figure remained the same.

  “Stand up straight, Aidan…Elbows off the table, Aidan…Make your grandfather proud, Aidan.” Virtually everything his great-aunt said to him was a command or a reminder of who he was and what he was expected to be. His father only laughed and told him to ignore her. His mother had been more indignant on his behalf—and her own, perhaps? An adult Aidan realized Lily might not have liked someone else correcting her child—and she did not hesitate to quarrel with Nessa when she overstepped her bounds.

  That had been a source of tension, Aidan remembered suddenly. Nessa had resented his mother’s tenancy of Deeprath Castle, had hated that a strange woman from America could come in and do whatever she liked to a house that had stood for hundreds of years. He could even recall a specific argument between them…

  “If you will not keep your daughter from ruining her reputation, then I will.”

  “Keep away from Kyla. It is none of your business.”

  “Kyla is a Gallagher. She is far more my business than yours.”

  Of course, Nessa hadn’t lived with them at Deeprath. Even through what he could remember of his childhood, Aidan knew she had lived mostly in the dower house in Kilkenny that her brief marriage had brought her. But being a Gallagher, Nessa considered the castle to be as much hers as her nephew’s. Certainly, Aidan himself had been exposed to that point of view as he’d come into his inheritance.

  And Kyla? Aidan knew, somewhere inside him in a place he did not want to acknowledge, that he was reluctant to look at his sister. What would he see when he did? The unhappy, sometimes difficult woman she’d become? The angry and temperamental teenager? Or the girl who’d often been generous to her little brother, letting him follow her around the castle, even just letting him draw quietly in her room while she did whatever mysterious things a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl did.

  He had to search for Kyla tonight, and finally he found her dancing with Winthrop. But stare as he might, the double-vision trick did not work with his sister. His vision of her stayed stubbornly in the present. He still could not remember where he’d seen her the day of the murders, or when.

  Did he remember her in the immediate aftermath? He recalled Nessa more clearly than anyone else, and Maire Bell, who had been the first to appear when he screamed. He remembered the usually serene housekeeper visibly shaking as she knelt by his father and then took Aidan by the shoulders and gently pulled him out of the library. Nessa had come somewhere in there. Aidan could not remember the moment when he’d understood what had happened—could only recall himself shouting.

  Make it not true! Make it not true!

  His hand jerked, sloshing scotch onto his cuff, as his voice echoed in his head. He had forgotten that completely, forgotten screaming with his hands over his ears until Nessa had to slap him to bring him out of it.

  And then…yes…Kyla had been there by then, for the two of them sat in silent misery in the music room while footsteps came and went and lots of conversations occurred just out of their hearing.

  Someone touched his arm then, and Aidan sloshed his drink again. Swearing under his breath, he put on his mask of remote politeness to keep whomever it was from wanting to linger.

  “Penelope!”

  “Hello, Aidan darling.” As always, Penelope had matched her attire perfectly to her environment. Her vibrant red dress was conservatively cut by London standards and she wore no jewelry save a single silver chain. Even so, most of the men in the room were eyeing her.

  He kissed her on the cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d decided to come?”

  “Because I wanted to be free to change my mind at the last moment without guilt.”

  “Where are you staying? You must come here, of course.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. The Glendalough Hotel is perfectly charming. Where else could I have a view of ruined churches outside my window? Though I must say,” she let her eyes drift around the hall, taking in the enormous fireplace and the tapestry-covered walls and Tudor beams, “when you told me you grew up in a castle, I didn’t really think Castle with a capital C.”

  “So have you come to see me or Deeprath?”

  “Deeprath, of course. Maybe that’s why I broke up with you, when I realized you weren’t going to marry me and let me live like an Irish princess.”

  There were so few people in his adult life who’d dared tease him. Kyla (always bitterly these days), Penelope…and Carragh.

  Penelope touched his arm. “Seriously, how are you?”

  “It’s been…” He considered, surprised to find that he could honestly say, “It’s been not so bad. I mean, families are always families. But there have been some developments about—” He broke off, unsure how to describe the hunt he and Carragh were embarked on without a good deal of explanation. “Tonight’s not the best time to go into it all. I would like to talk to you. Does your being here mean you’re willing to hypnotize me?”

  “Tonight’s not the best time for that discussion, either. Tomorrow? In the meantime, tell me about the young woman in the rather gorgeous gray skirt that you danced with earlier. Is she your archivist?”

  “Carragh’s helping me go through the library, but she’s not really a professional. She’s an editor, I think, who studied Irish folklore.”

  “Interesting.”

  “She can read Irish as well as English and she knows how to take notes,” Aidan said defensively. “For my purposes, that’s all we needed. And before you get any ideas, may I remind you that it was Nessa who hired her.”

  “It wasn’t Nessa who danced with her,” Penelope murmured.

  “Pen.” It was a warning, in response to her eloquent expression. “What?”

  “Nothing, I’m sure. You just go on being aloof and gorgeous. It’s a lethal combination. Who can fight it?”

  “You had no problem walking away.”

  “Because I have a well-developed sense of self-preservation, darling. Not everyone does. You should take care.”

  He was uncomfortable with her assessment. Did she mean he should take care of Carragh’s feelings, or his own? He offered Penelope his hand. “Since you’ve come all this way, will you dance? I wouldn’t want you to miss out on a princess moment.”

  “You,” she said softly, placing her hand in his, “are a dangerous man, Aidan Gallagher. It’s a good thing I only like you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Autumn 1880

  When Evan wrote to Charles that the first months of his marriage were not what he’d expected, his publisher returned a wry reply: I don’t think there’s a man alive who has the faintest idea what to expect. If we did, we’d never risk it. Work on the book and you’ll get over it.

  Evan wrote to others infrequently and cautiously, for he would not risk the slightest stain on Jenny’s reputation. Her health was no one’s concern but their own. He watched her closely the first weeks after she left the tower, and bles
sedly she returned to the Jenny he’d met and fallen in love with.

  And he learned it was possible to love her even more. He loved her stubbornness in the face of fragility, and the way he could actually see her battling at moments. The terrible kind of internal fight that is so much more difficult than those fought with fists. He began to recognize how closely she was watched—and how much that watching affected her. From the housekeeper to the chambermaid, eyes followed his wife everywhere she went, and he was quite certain all their reports ended up on Lord Gallagher’s desk.

  Evan nearly brought up the subject with Jenny a dozen times, but every time he began, she steered the conversation artfully away from her health. He told himself he would respect her wishes. Or maybe that was just cowardice talking. In the event, he held his peace throughout the summer and early autumn and poured his frustrations and observations into his novel.

  He used much of the skeleton of the Gallagher family history as the origin story for his own Darkling Bride: the embittered Crusader, the young woman taken far from her home, the idealistic monk-in-training. He also used—how could he not?—the details of their first meeting as told to him by Jenny: the Sanctuary Cross, the stay at Glendalough, the one-sided silence as the woman (he altered Maryam to Miriam) listened to the eager and impressionable Niall Gallagher.

  But that was only the backdrop to the main story. For however many versions of the Darkling Bride legend he had found, in none of them was she a heroine the reading public would accept. Too strange, too vengeful, too other (in some versions she was faerie). Readers wanted their lovers to be accessible, honorable, and, on the woman’s part, pure. So he created Anna, an intelligent, self-willed, but kindhearted orphan who finds in Ireland a forbidding castle, a secretive family, and a stern master. Evan knew how to write a bestseller—give them beauty, give them brooding atmosphere, give them a taciturn man who can only be redeemed by the right woman and the kind of mystery that can be tied up neatly with a bow at the end, leaving them to live happily ever after…with just enough darkness in the story to highlight the good.

  Evan was not blind to the similarities to his own life this last year, although he didn’t especially fancy himself as the innocent orphan. He poured into the book all that he had felt since his arrival, his attraction to both people and places, the sense of rightness by day that couldn’t erase the distant air of foreboding in the dark. As though every person at Deeprath was waiting for something to happen.

  Although Charles asked—often—Evan refused to write a synopsis. Nor did he send early pages, as he usually did, for critique. This story was his and he would not risk its too-early entry into the world. When pressed—pushed—harassed—he reluctantly wrote a one-page outline in the barest possible terms and told Charles that was all he was getting. He also ignored every question about when he would return to London.

  So the days passed at Deeprath Castle quietly, becoming more and more like a space set aside from the normal world. Everything in Evan’s life had narrowed to Ireland, to Wicklow, to this particular structure and landscape known to the Gallaghers for centuries. He still felt himself something of an outsider, but one being inexorably absorbed into the larger whole.

  A feeling that intensified on a wildly stormy day in November, when Jenny told him she was pregnant.

  DIARY OF JENNY GALLAGHER

  26 November 1880

  All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well…never have the words of St. Julian so resonated. This baby will be my salvation. I can feel it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  To her own surprise, Carragh quite enjoyed the evening’s festivities. Except for university and those few disastrous weeks of clubbing and drinking after her grandmother’s death, she mostly preferred going out in small groups to quiet places. But tonight, buoyed by her borrowed fashion and one carefully sipped glass of champagne, she moved through the crowd with ease. She danced twice more, once with the teenage son of a Rathdrum family and once with the local doctor. It helped that no one really wanted to talk about her, but were only probing for inside information on the Gallaghers. She confined herself to physical descriptions of the library, her pleasure and interest in the mountains and Glendalough in particular, and her degree in Irish folklore.

  That last brought an unexpected response from the Laragh priest, who turned out to be the very same Father Hennessy referenced by Lily Gallagher years ago. After learning of Carragh’s interest in the Darkling Bride, he immediately invited her to visit him. “I’ve got some privately printed material not easily found.”

  They settled on the next afternoon and parted with well wishes, Carragh already wondering how to question him about Lily Gallagher and that fatal autumn. And then she learned all over again how swiftly one’s emotional state can change, as Philip slid to her side and in a malicious tone said, “Well well. Who is that smashing woman with Aidan?”

  He might be malicious, but his description was accurate. The brunette was tall and striking, willowy in a red sheath dress that made Carragh feel simultaneously overdressed and as though she’d rummaged through a child’s dress-up trunk. And no one could accuse Aidan of simply being polite, for he was not only speaking to her while they danced, but his expression was open and engaged. So the woman was not only gorgeous, but someone he liked. Carragh thought maybe she’d seen her before, in one of the tabloid photos of Aidan.

  “Don’t look like that, sweetheart.” Philip didn’t touch her, but he might as well have. His voice was as intrusive as his hands would have been—or almost. “I could make you forget all about Aidan Gallagher. Everyone will be busy for the next hour and this place is enormous. I’m sure we could find a quiet corner.”

  He did touch her then, his hand coming to rest lightly in the small of her back just above the waistline of her skirt.

  “Go away, Philip.” She said it as firmly as she could without raising her voice. The last thing she needed was to draw attention.

  So of course that was the moment Nessa chose to check on her. The old woman’s steel-trap eyes lingered for a moment on Philip’s hand, which he kept where it was, then regarded Carragh. “Enjoying yourself, my dear?” It was hard to tell if she was saying more in subtext, since the woman’s normal voice always sounded like she was implying two or three things at the same time.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Lovely. The supper buffet will be served in a few minutes. Make sure you don’t miss it.” Which could mean Eat something or could equally mean Don’t even think about going somewhere I can’t see you.

  Another gothic novel moment, the intruder who doesn’t belong being reminded of her position by the superior family matriarch. Or maybe simply Victorian, when being a woman—whatever her position—meant being constantly put in your place. Was that what it had been like to be Jenny Gallagher?

  Yes.

  Carragh could swear she felt a ghost of laughter against her flushed cheek and startled, leaving Philip’s hand dangling in the air for several surprised seconds. Really? she yelled internally. You want to talk here? Or am I just too close to drunk and imagining things?

  “I’m just going to powder my nose before supper,” she said distractedly. Now she was even talking like a character from the past. She needed to get out of this skirt and out of this party and out of this damned castle before she forgot who she was and what year she was living in. She was no one’s governess, she was no servant who needed to be reminded of her manners, and was most definitely not the lower class girl falling inappropriately in love with the master of the house.

  So there.

  She didn’t have the means to powder anything even if she’d meant to, and the nearest cloakroom had several people waiting, so she slipped around a corner and through one of the myriad doorways that led to the corridor that led to the library.

  It was locked. She should have guessed that Aidan would want to ensure that no one wandered where they weren’t wanted. It left her standing in
an old, damp, cold corridor wishing she could escape to her room or, even better, back to Dublin. But she wouldn’t give Nessa the satisfaction. She would allow herself five minutes to stand here and breathe, then return for the supper and make sure she was widely seen to be nowhere near Philip.

  As she habitually closed her eyes when she was breathing for calmness—and because of his damn ability to move like a cat—she only knew Aidan was in front of her when he said, “Trying to wish your way through the lock?”

  Her eyes flew open, and some of her anger at Philip—and herself—poured out. “Doesn’t anyone in this bloody family announce themselves before walking into what is clearly meant to be a private moment? Do I need to wear a do not disturb sign everywhere I go? If it’s Nessa who sent you in search of me, you can tell her to mind her own damn business and that I’ll come back if and when I want to.”

  “It wasn’t Nessa. When I couldn’t find you, I thought you might be here. It’s where I would have come if I could. If you like, I’ll let you in and lock it behind you so no one can bother you.”

  “And what happens when you get so distracted with your other guests that you forget to let me out?” Why did she have to picture the sort of distractions the gorgeous brunette might provide?

  He said, with the gravest amusement, “You could sleep on the table. And I don’t think you’d starve in one night.”

  “Who’s the woman?” The question tumbled out, and she winced. But backtracking would make it even more awkward.

  “What woman?” But she could see from his expression that he knew who she meant. “Ah. Her name is Penelope Costa. A friend from London.”

  “You looked very friendly.” Why did these words keep spilling out of her mouth?