Haunted Ground (5 page)

Thick clouds obscured the sun and the sky turned nearly black as another storm threatened to break at any moment.  An ominous silence descended after a flock of crows rose into the sky like black omens of doom, cawing madly and flapping their wings against the gathering wind.  Brendan’s horse ambled into the yard just as the first crack of lightning split the sky and the rain began to pelt his back, marginally cooling the burning wound.  Within moments he was soaked, blood-tinged rainwater running down his legs and over the flanks of the horse.  Brendan would have fallen into the mud had his uncle not caught him under the arms, barely managing to keep his own balance.  He had no recollection of the ride to his uncle’s house, slipping in and out of consciousness as he held on to the horse’s mane for dear life to keep him from sliding off. 

“I got you, lad, I got you.  What in God’s name happened?” Uncle Caleb panted as he half carried Brendan into the house, calling to his wife for water and bandages.  Brendan tried to reply, but his tongue wouldn’t work and an all-encompassing blackness descended on him as he gratefully embraced it.

The room was shrouded in darkness as Brendan came to, rain lashing against the shutters with a ferocity that filled the house with the sound of the downpour.  Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, but the brunt of the storm seemed to have passed.  Brendan nearly cried out with pain, but bit his tongue at the sight of the girl.  Her profile was illuminated by the single candle burning only inches away from her face; the flame flickering in the wind seeping through the crack in the shutters.  She was grinding something in a mortar as she gripped the pestle with both hands, using all her strength.  Brendan tried to get a better look at the girl, but his vision was blurred and the room was too dim to see her features clearly.  She wasn’t one of his cousins, of that he was sure.  Maybe she was a servant.  His mind refused to focus as wave after wave of pain radiated from his wounds making him feel as if he’d been flayed.  He must have moaned because the girl’s head shot up, her frightened eyes glued to the bed.

“Hello,” he croaked, hoping he hadn’t scared her. 

She gave an almost imperceptible nod before adding a dollop of something to the mortar and coming to sit by him on the side of the cot.  Her eyes found his, but still she said nothing, only laid her cool hand across his forehead more as a sign of benediction than a healer’s need to check for a fever.  She gently took him by the shoulder and indicated that he should lie on his stomach.  The agony that sliced through Brendan as he tried to move nearly took his breath away, but he carefully rolled over, giving her access to the wound in his back.  His arm and leg were already bandaged, so he must have been out for quite some time. 

The girl used a rag soaked with warm water to wet the dried blood, and carefully peeled the tatters of his shirt from his back before applying the poultice.  Brendan wanted to howl as her fingers touched the raw flesh, but he clamped his teeth, refusing to shame himself in front of this girl who was only trying to help him.  He gave her a weak smile of gratitude, but she averted her eyes from his, almost as if she were afraid of him. 

“What’s your name?” he asked through gritted teeth, needing something to distract him.  She seemed to be flustered by his question and continued to apply the medicine without replying.  Brendan could feel a tremor in her hand as she finished and busied herself with the bandage which needed to be rolled under his chest.  She touched his shoulder in a silent command for him to lift his body, finished bandaging, and left the room without so much as by-your-leave. 
Had he done something to offend her?
Brendan wondered as he tried to find a comfortable position.  The pain was more of a dull ache than a scorching heat if he didn’t move, and he finally drifted off to sleep, still thinking about the strange girl.

***

It was still dark by the time Brendan woke up.  The rain had abated and was now more of a melodic patter that soothed his troubled mind; the wind moving through the trees outside with a loud murmur like an afterthought to the howling of a few hours ago.  Despite the pain, Brendan was hungry and thirsty.  He carefully shifted his weight in an attempt to rise from the cot, but the pain was like a bear awoken from hibernation, ferocious and relentless.  He sank back down, relieved to hear someone coming. 

The girl walked in carrying a wooden tray laden with a bowl, a cup of something, and a hunk of bread and set it on the trunk by the window.  Aunt Joan was right behind her, her face creased with worry in the light of the candle she was carrying, her hand cupped around it to protect the flame from the draught.

“Go find your bed, Rowan,” she said quietly as she pulled back the blanket to check the bandages.  “I’ll help him.”  Rowan threw a furtive glance at Brendan before she left the room, closing the door softly behind her. 

Brendan was relieved that the girl had left.  It was absurd to feel embarrassment in his situation, but she’d seen enough of him to last her a lifetime, since his clothes were in shreds and he was naked under the blanket.  Joan was a married woman, so she wouldn’t be shocked.  She sat down on a stool next to the cot and set the tray on her lap, prepared to feed him like a child.  Joan tore up the bread and mixed the chunks into the stew to absorb the gravy before spooning the food into his mouth and giving him an occasional sip of ale. 

“No matter how much pain you’re in, food always makes everything better,” she observed as she set the empty bowl back down on the tray and lowered it to the floor.  “Is there anything you need before I go?  Don’t try to get up; you’ll only injure yourself further.”

Brendan nodded in acquiescence, his mind on the young woman who tended to him so tenderly.  “Who’s the girl?”

“That’s Rowan, my niece.  She’s my sister’s child come to live with us.”  Joan looked uncomfortable all of a sudden, but Brendan wasn’t ready to drop the subject. 

“Have I done something to offend her?  She wouldn’t answer me.”

“She doesn’t answer anyone, lad; not anymore.”  Joan looked away for a moment, her face waxy in the feeble light of the candle. 

“Why?” Brendan asked.  He knew he was being overly inquisitive, but he wanted to know and Rowan herself wouldn’t tell him.

“She was such a sweet, happy girl, just like my sister, before her father left to go and fight.  Delwyn begged him not to take up soldiering, but he wouldn’t listen.  Died during the war.  Fought on the side of the king, he did.  Loyal through and through.”  Joan gave Brendan a defiant look knowing he, himself, had been a supporter of Cromwell, and went on with her story.  “Rowan showed up here, about four years ago.  She just stumbled into the yard, much as you did today, half-starved and frightened to death.  We asked her over and over what happened, even had the reverend come and talk to her, but she just wouldn’t answer.  She’d lost her ability to speak.  Whatever she’d seen had terrified her so badly, she just went to some place inside her head where everything was safe.  All we got out of her with looks and nods was that my sister was dead and their house gone.  Caleb offered to go and see if anything could be salvaged, but Rowan got into such a state that he just abandoned the idea.  It seemed to comfort her, so we just let her be in the hope that someday she would come back to us.”

“But she hasn’t?” Brendan asked, feeling overwhelming pity for the girl.  What had happened to her to cause such a breakdown?

Joan shrugged her shoulders, rising to her feet and picking up the tray.  “Don’t ask her any questions, Brendan.  She’s a good, kind girl, who needs our pity and understanding. There’s nothing you can do for her other than offer her kindness.”

“Please thank her for tending to my wounds,” Brendan called out to Joan as she left the room.

“Thank her yourself,” Joan replied.  “She’s mute, not deaf.”

***

Brendan didn’t have too long to wait to thank Rowan.  She came back just as the impenetrable blackness of a stormy night was broken by the grayness of an overcast morning.  The room was still lost in shadow, but he could now make out the outline of the trunk and stool and the wooden rectangle of the door.  He’d tried to sleep, but the relentless pain and his even more relentless thoughts kept sleep at bay. 

Rowan walked so quietly, Brendan barely realized she was there until she sat down on the stool and pulled down the blanket to check on his wounds.  The cut in the arm thankfully wasn’t that deep, but his thigh and his back were badly damaged and would need time to heal.  Rowan nodded as if satisfied with what she saw and rose to her feet to throw open the shutters.  The room filled with the milky light of predawn, the draught from the open window dispelling the smell of blood and sweat that permeated the room.  Rowan sat back down and looked Brendan full in the face.  That was the first time she really looked at him and there was something in her gaze he didn’t understand.  It’s as if she was willing him to see something, to acknowledge something.  Now that he was finally seeing her in the light he realized how fair she was.  He couldn’t quite make out the color of her hair beneath the cap, but he could see her eyes; a blue-gray, clear and wide, fringed with sooty lashes that matched her arched eyebrows, which happened to be furrowed at his lack of understanding. 

“What is it, lass?  What are you trying to tell me?” he asked gently, hoping he wasn’t upsetting her further. 

Rowan just shook her head, as if annoyed by a pesky mosquito and rose to her feet.  Whatever it was, she was willing to let it go for the time being.  She was just about to leave when Uncle Caleb entered the room, his face grim as he took in Brendan’s condition.  “Run along now, Rowan, I’ve a mind to speak to my nephew alone.”  He gave the girl a warm smile to soften the dismissal and she fled from the room, leaving the two men alone.

Uncle Caleb listened carefully as Brendan described everything that happened, his face thoughtful as he stroked his beard.  “Are you sure you knew the men?” he asked, doubt written across his face. 

“Yes, Uncle, besides, no one except Jasper, Meg, and mother knew I’d come back or where I was headed.  He sent them; they admitted as much.” 

“So, you’re sure it wasn’t your purse they were after?” Caleb asked thoughtfully.

“They were sent by Jasper,” Brendan repeated. 

“I just can’t believe Jasper would do such a thing.  He has much to gain by your death, and men have killed for less, but I just can’t accept it.  He was always a good lad, maybe a little too calculating for his own good, but hardly a murderer.  These strange times bring out the worst in people.” 

“I suppose they do,” agreed Brendan.  All he wanted was to close his eyes and go to sleep.  He was so tired; his head was swimming with fatigue and little bursts of color kept exploding behind his eyelids.  He must have lost a lot of blood to feel so weakened.  He fought to stay awake as Uncle Caleb put a hand on his wrist.  “Brendan, if what you say is true, then you can’t stay here.  Jasper will find out soon enough that you got away and killed his men, and you now know that he’s tried to do away with you.  He’d be a fool not to try again, and next time he’ll make sure he gets it right.  You must leave tonight.”

Brendan believed himself to be a strong man, but at that moment he wanted to cry like a babe.  He’d been told to leave twice within the last twenty-four hours
—
a man without a home or family.  He might as well have died in battle, for there was nothing left for him in this life.  He had little money and no place to go.  He turned his head to the wall to hide his misery from his uncle, but Uncle Caleb patted him on the shoulder to get his attention.  “I know of a place you can stay.  You’ll be safe there until you heal.  I’ll take you tonight.  We’ll wait until midnight to leave to make sure no one is about.  You just get some rest and don’t fret.  You’ll be all right; I promise.”  With that he left Brendan to rest.

The Present

I trudged up the stairs and returned to what I now thought of as my room, feeling tired and annoyed.  I’d seen several contractors who came out from Lincoln that afternoon, and my hopes of finding someone who understood my ideas quickly faded.  The solid, middle-aged men who came by were all obsessed with modernizing the place and bringing it into the twenty-first century.  They spoke of mosaic tiles, modern kitchen appliances, and jet steam showers with whirlpools.  All those ideas would have been wonderful had I not wanted to actually bring the house back in time and not forward. 

I reclined on the bed, allowing my mind to tour the hotel as I saw it in my dreams.  The bedrooms on the second floor would be more luxurious, more expensive, but the smaller rooms on the third floor would be economy, good for single travelers or people on a budget.  The first floor would have a breakfast room, a dining room for those who chose to eat at the hotel, and two lounges with fireplaces and comfortable sofas and chairs, perfect for reading or having a glass of wine before dinner.  They would be elegant and inviting, filled with fresh flowers and lovely paintings.

I got so carried away with my daydream that I didn’t notice the knocking right away.  It was only when the knocking turned into banging that I flew off the bed and ran down the stairs to see who my first visitor might be.  The man on my doorstep was young and attractive, his longish sandy hair ruffled by the breeze and falling into cornflower-blue eyes as he surveyed me, smiling at my disheveled state.

“Can I help you?” I asked, trying to regain my composure in the face of his scrutiny, but only succeeded in blushing to the roots of my hair.

“Hello there.  My name is Aidan Mackay.  Paula Dees sent me.  She said you’re looking for a contractor.” 

“Ah, yes,” I stammered.  “I am, actually.  I’m Alexandra Maxwell.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Maxwell.”  I wasn’t sure what surprised me more, the old-fashioned phrase coming from this young man or the Scottish burr with which it was delivered. 

“Are you a Scot?” I asked unnecessarily. 

“Aye, well spotted,” he replied, the smile never leaving his face.  “May I come in then?”  I hastily backed away from the door, inviting him inside.  I wasn’t normally this flustered, but he unnerved me, gazing at me as if he’d never seen anyone so fascinating.  It was probably a great way of getting new clients.  Charm them from the get-go. 

“I’ve always wondered what this place was like inside,” he mused as he looked around, taking in the faded wallpaper and ancient furniture.  “And now I know,” he said, rolling his eyes in mock horror at the plastic flowers in the hearth.  “So, what did you have in mind?”

“For what?” I asked stupidly.

“For the house.  What would you like done?  I can’t give you an estimate if you don’t tell me what it is you’re wanting done,” he explained patiently, watching me with those laughing eyes. 

“Right.  Did Paula tell you that I’d like to turn this place into a hotel?”

“She did, and I think it’s a grand idea.  The only place to stay ‘round here is the pub.  They let rooms on the second floor, but this area is a magnet for tourists, being so close to Lincoln, so something a bit more upscale should do very nicely.  What did you have in mind?”

I liked the way he said ‘very’.  It sounded like ‘verra’ and for some reason I found that verra appealing.  Most of the people I’d met in England had either a clipped, precise way of pronouncing things or a cockney-like accent that I found difficult to understand.  Aidan Mackay’s rounded vowels sounded more warm and natural, and surprisingly easier to comprehend.

I filled him in on my plan as we walked through the house, Aidan taking notes and measurements as we went.  He seemed to understand exactly what I wanted, making helpful suggestions and shaking his head when I mentioned that I wasn’t about to put TV’s in the guest rooms.

“I understand that you want to re-create an eighteenth-century atmosphere, but there’s not much to do here in the evenings.  Your guests might get a bit bored, unless you’re planning on holding poetry readings by candlelight, musical soirees, or card games that go into the wee hours as they would have during that period,” he said, smiling sheepishly.  “People are very attached to their gadgets these days.”

“I know, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.  I want this place to look and feel as authentic as possible.  Some people might enjoy being disconnected for a few days.” 

Aidan gave me an understanding smile, but wouldn’t concede his point entirely.  “Well, I hope you’ll at least have Wi-Fi,” he suggested, moving on to the next room.  “I can give up the telly for a few days, but not my phone and computer.  If you force people to go cold turkey, they might just retaliate by giving you bad reviews, and bad reviews are bad for business.”  He had me there.

“Yes, I think I will,” I replied with a grin and followed him down the stairs and out the front door.  I liked the fact that he wasn’t afraid to argue with me to make his point.  Many people would just agree with whatever I said to get the contract, but Aidan wasn’t just talking to me as a prospective contractor, he was giving me his insight into the running of a business, and that was something I appreciated.  Despite my education and work experience in a major hotel, I’d never actually owned one, or made decisions that might make or break my business.  It was nice to have someone to bounce ideas off.

I was surprised when instead of heading for his truck, Aidan walked around the south side of the building toward the overgrown back garden.  The path was nearly impassable with weeds and brambles, and the trellis choked with ivy that had grown unchecked for years and intertwined with climbing roses which were fighting for their place in the sun.  Flowers bloomed among the weeds, their brilliant colors adding a festive touch to the unkempt garden that was crying out for the loving hand of an enthusiastic gardener.

  “It would be nice to put out some tables in the garden once it’s been set to rights.  You can serve breakfast there in the summer or tea in the afternoon.  The view is wonderful, especially at sunset.  You have the advantage of having this unspoiled landscape,” he mused, looking out over the lush meadow that stretched toward the line of trees behind the ruin.  “I bet that hill looks much as it had hundreds of years ago – no cell towers, no factories, and no council flats.  Just a meadow, stream, and trees as nature intended.”

“And the ruin,” I added. 

“The ruin is an added benefit.  To some it’s a tumbledown eyesore; to others, a passage to the past steeped in romance and history.  Would be good if you had a story to go with it.  Do you know anything of who lived there or why it went to pot?”

“No, but I intend to find out.”

“Better yet, make up a tale of yer own if there’s nae historical import to yon old croft.  Might add a wee bit air o’ mystery.  Might be ye’ve seen a restless ghost or some fairy folk?”  He said this in a thick Scottish accent that made me laugh.  I had a feeling he turned on the Scots brogue for the ladies, as it was irresistible.

I nodded, pleased with the idea.  I almost told him about the man I’d seen in the ruins the other day, but decided not to.  He was probably long gone, having found nothing to interest him. If he were a history enthusiast, he could find far more interesting things elsewhere.  I turned away from the ruin and gazed over the garden, imagining the possibilities.

Actually, Aidan was right.  The slanting rays of the afternoon sun bathed the garden in a mellow, golden light, the arrow-like shafts of light piercing the canopy of ivy and striping the walk in bands of sun and shade.  The mullioned windows of the upper floors were alight with the sun’s reflection, making the gloomy façade appear gloriously vivid and welcoming.  A lazy butterfly flitted from one rose bush to another, the exquisite fragrance filling the air with a delicate perfume.  I suddenly wanted nothing more than to sit among all that overgrown profusion and have a cup of tea myself, but there was nothing to sit on, so tea would have to be in the antiquated kitchen tonight, all by my lonesome. 

I followed Aidan to his truck, noticing how he scrutinized the stone path and cracked flower urns sitting atop pillars at the end of the drive.  He didn’t miss a thing, which was good since I hadn’t given either the path or the urns another thought until that moment.

“May I call you in a few days with an estimate?” he asked as he opened the door to get in. 

“Yes, definitely.  I will, of course, need to get a few other estimates as well,” I replied, trying to hide the eagerness in my voice.  I liked this guy, and I could already see him taking on the project.

“Do you work alone?” I asked, suddenly realizing how much work would need to be done.

“I have a couple of lads who come in to do the heavy work, but I like to do the more decorative bits myself.  I enjoy it,” he replied, suddenly looking shy.

“I enjoy the decorative bits as well,” I replied.  “They are the fun part.”

With that we shook hands and I watched as Aidan Mackay drove away, leaving me in much better spirits than I was before he came.  I was buzzing with ideas, and I couldn’t wait to inform him that he got the job.