by Lila Dubois
“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 child
ren 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.
In 1866, there was a thick black line across the page. Below the line it said simply Died in uprising, taken by British troops, followed by a list of over twenty names, with the age of each person or child noted beside it. Most were males in their late teens or twenties, but there was a group of six all with the same last name—a whole family.
Thomas Mac Gearailt, 18; Ronan Mac Gearailt, 20; Carrig Mac Gearailt, 24; wife Carroll Nic Gearailt, nee O’Donnabhain, 20; Ruari Mac Gearailt, 6; Kirin Mac Gearailt, 4.
Only six and four and they’d been killed.
Were those the children in the castle? But that didn’t seem right. She’d heard from Elizabeth that Dr. Heavey had said that the older boy was eight or nine and the baby only four months. These two boys couldn’t be the ones in the castle. She checked for Ruari and Orin in the school records and found them both in there, though Ruari had a note by his name. Behavior poor when seated by cousins Murtagh and Charles.
Sorcha looked back to the parish record. Included in the list of those slain in the “uprising” was another familiar name.
Charles, age 11.
This poor child, who seemed unloved and alone, with no last name or family listed anywhere. And then to see him listed as having died so young was heartbreaking.
But he was too old to be the body in the nursery. She scanned the list, and there were no male children of the right age to be the bones they’d found.
Then again, it could be that this was the wrong year all together. She quickly flipped through the rest of the parish records, and though there were a distressingly large number of children listed under deaths, most were under the age of two.
Finally she turned to the small journal-like book.
“Sorcha?”
Séan was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. His eyes were half-lidded and sleepy, his hair tousled. He looked unbearably sexy.
“Séan.”
“I fell asleep. I’m sorry.”
“You were tired.”
He glanced at the papers in front of her. “You’re going through the records?”
“Yes. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course. Tell me what you found.”
“First sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea.” It wasn’t until Sorcha had gotten up and put the kettle on that she realized she was acting like this was her house. To cover her discomfort, while the kettle boiled she went to the living room and picked up their plates, carrying them back to the kitchen. Séan was seated and tugging at the braces on his hands.
“Should you take those off?”
“Yes.”
“You mean you want them off. You know that’s not the same thing.”
He only grunted. Taking pity on him, she went to help him with the braces. Once they were off, she turned away, but he caught her hand. He tugged and she tumbled down onto his lap. Out of instinct, Sorcha wrapped her arms around his neck. He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear.
“I liked waking up and knowing you were here in my house.”
“Oh, Séan, why are you making this so hard?”
“Nothing has to be hard.” He cupped her cheek and drew her down. Sorcha didn’t resist. She knew she should, but she didn’t want to.
Sitting in his kitchen surrounded by the smell of food, tea and dusty records, he kissed her. It was both exciting and comforting. With his arms around her, she felt whole.
Sorcha eased back, stroking his temple, his cheek.
There were so many things she wanted to say. Last night her emotions had been too close to the surface, and she’d reacted rather than explaining. She and Séan needed to have a calm, adult conversation, with no tears and no kissing.
But not now. Right now she wanted to talk about what she had—and hadn’t—found in those papers.
She rose from his lap, making them both fresh cups of tea. Catching Séan eyeing the basket of muffins, she brought him one and a napkin. He bit into it, carefully catching the crumbs with his teacup.
“What did you find?” he asked.
“There’s plenty of boys here in the school records that could be the bones in the castle. Did I tell you that the scientist said they’re boys, one age eight or nine, the other four months?”
Séan nodded and motioned for her to continue.
“Well, the baby wouldn’t be in the school books, but the older boy should be. There are plenty of nine-year-old boys in here.” She touched the school records. “But there aren’t any deaths for both an eight-or nine-year-old and a baby in here.” Now she touched the parish records. “Are you sure they’d be in these books?”
“No. These could be the wrong years, but it’s interesting that the records from the time of the Fenian Rising were left here.”
“The Fenian Rising, of course.” 1866 was just before the uprising, and the deaths that took place here might have been some of the impetus for the 1867 rising. “The time period is about right, based on the furniture, but we need to look for the records in the years before and after this.”
“Yes, we should, but we can’t.”
“Why?”
“These are the only records we have for those years.”
“Oh.” Sorcha looked at table and all the history that rested there. “The other records were destroyed?”
“Or the priest moved them to the new parochial house.”
“Leaving these behind.” Sorcha tapped her fingers on the table as she thought. “You think they were left behind because they contain information about what happened in the castle?”
“Glenncailty likes to keep her secrets, and that may have been a way to bury the tragedy. If they went to all the trouble of sealing the door, I’m sure they would have gotten rid of other records.”
“But why keep them at all? Why not burn them?”
“Maybe the priest said he did.”
“There’s something that’s been spinning around in my mind.” Sorcha pulled her phone fr
om her pocket. “One time we had a visitor at our guesthouse who’d come looking for her roots. It was an Australian woman. Family history said that they’d come from Athlone, but she didn’t know much else. We helped her a bit, but I remember she had to go to Dublin, to the National Archives.” As she spoke, Sorcha typed information into her phone, checking what she was saying. “She mentioned the school records when she came back.” She got the information she wanted after a quick search. “Yes, it says here that the National School Records were established in 1831 and stopped in 1921, and that though it was a nationwide project, the records are still held by the parishes.”
“So these papers are actually an official government document and should be with the parish records.”
“Yes, and it also means there would have to be more of these books.” Sorcha’s voice rose with excitement. She had the feeling that if she could just get a few more pieces of information she could put it all together. It was as if the pieces were all there, but she didn’t know how they fit together.
“They were left here as a way of hiding them but not destroying them.” Séan’s voice reflected some of the same excitement she felt.
“But then why isn’t there a record of the death in the parish register? We know how old the boys were, and probably they died at the same time, so the parish register should show the death of two boys together, age nine and four months.”
There was silence before Séan looked up. “Because they never really died.”
“What?”
“The room was sealed, meaning the bodies were never seen, and they were never buried.”
“But surely someone had to know they were in there, that they were dead.”
“Maybe they did, but without the bodies, without a burial, would that be recorded?”
Sorcha licked her lips and looked back at the records. “So if not the parish records…”
“We need to look at the school records for a boy who disappeared from the records after age eight or nine.”
