Excerpt
Maeve
placed a gloved hand on the golden door handle of the Tullamore
Castle Hotel and pushed. The glass door resisted against the vacuum
of a blustery gust. The short but stormy walk from the cab to the
curb had left rain sheeting from her umbrella and tall black boots.
She
bore down, gave the door a firm shove and watched in awe as it swung
open onto a timeless realm entrenched in equal parts modern luxury
and dour medieval grit. Above the entrance a time-ravaged,
iron-studded medieval shield bearing the image of a griffin held a
place of honor between two Victorian-era crystal sconces, punctuating
the contrast of a far-reaching past.
Maeve
was too tired to care that she was tracking water across the
patterned carpet as she ambled into the elegant front lobby dragging
a lopsided piece of rolling luggage. For the past twenty-four hours
she’d roamed airports, engaged in endless desperate bargaining with
airline personnel to exchange tickets, hunted down cabs and texted
anyone she could reach to tell them that her international flights
and all her arrangements on the ground had been disrupted by
turbulent weather.
The
challenging journey from the US to Ireland had left her weary to the
bone. Everything that could go wrong had. As she approached the front
desk there was little wonder in her mind why the word “travel”
had its roots in the original travail,
which literally meant
torture.
An
attentive middle-aged woman, with red hair swept away from her stark
face, stepped from behind the carved baroque counter to greet her.
“You must be Maeve Clark. We received your message. I’m so sorry
you’ve had such a difficult time getting here.” The woman reached
for Maeve’s luggage. “Let’s get you signed in so you can rest.”
The
woman glanced out the front entrance as the cab that had brought
Maeve turned and drove away in the pouring rain. “I don’t see
anyone else out there. Is Mr. Clark with you?”
“What
time is it?” Maeve fought the impulse to rub her eyes with the
heels of her hands and grind what little mascara still clung to her
lashes onto her cheeks.
The
woman smoothed the lapels of her prim navy suit. “It’s 1:11 a.m.”
“Oh
god. I’m so disoriented I thought it was earlier. By the way, I’m
no longer Maeve Clark. I made the reservations last year before I
divorced. Didn’t I update you on the name change?”
The
woman’s gaze lingered on the prominent wedding ring on Maeve’s
left hand. “No name change was mentioned, but we have a beautiful
room waiting and we’re pleased to have you visit with us, Miss...?”
“Maeve
dé Burgo.”
The
woman looked elated. “You’re a dé Burgo? Of course, now it
all makes sense! Oh this is wonderful, and so appropriate. I’m
certain you are aware that the ancestral founder of Tullamore Castle
was Lord dé Burgo?” The woman clasped Maeve’s hand. “My
name is Áine Byrne. I’m the current owner of Tullamore
Castle and if I’m not mistaken, you and I are distant relations.”
“You’re
the castle owner? I’m so happy to meet you, Miss Byrne.”
“Call
me Áine. I’m simply thrilled to have a dé Burgo under
our eaves again!”
Maeve
was dumbfounded by the woman’s intense enthusiasm for her maiden
name. “I’m surprised to see you working the front desk at this
hour.”
“I’m
a hands-on owner and a notorious insomniac. Night is when interesting
things happen at Tullamore. I like seeing everything and everyone who
comes through the front entrance. Hospitality is my business and I
enjoy being hospitable.”
“Thank
you, Áine.” Maeve was barely able to manage a smile in her
exhausted state. “From the outside, the castle is so dramatic, very
picturesque. I’m certainly looking forward to seeing my room.”
“Of
course you are.” Áine took Maeve’s hint and hurried behind
the counter to retrieve a massive leather-bound ledger with vellum
pages. “Because you are a dé Burgo would you please sign the
historic guest ledger?” She handed Maeve an old- fashioned feather
quill and a bottle of ink.
Maeve
sighed as she accepted the quill and ink. Despite her interest in all
things historical, she had no experience writing with a quill and
hoped she wouldn’t make a mess of Áine’s lovely old ledger
with an inevitable clumsy ink splosh on the creamy page.
Áine
seemed to read Maeve’s mind. “It’s not difficult. Simply dip,
swipe the quill on the rim of the bottle and write far more slowly
than you think you should.”
Maeve
dipped the quill and sketched her name across the velum with shaky,
scratchy strokes that required several dunks into the ink.
“Lovely.”
Áine gazed at Maeve’s signature and set the ledger aside to
dry. “By the way, the room you requested is not available. We had a
slight accident with some workmen the other day and the room you
reserved will require refurbishment.”
Maeve
groaned in disappointment. “The cheerful little yellow room
overlooking the rose garden isn’t available?”
“No.”
Áine glanced at Maeve sideways. “We’re putting you in the
O’Griofa suite tonight. It’s our finest room.”
Maeve
gasped. She’d visited Castle Tullamore’s website many times and
knew the O’Griofa suite was a sprawling set of adjoining rooms
stuffed with priceless antiques and no doubt far beyond her budget.
“It’s
all right.” Áine raised a preemptive palm into the air. “You
will not be charged suite rates. The mistake was on our side and you
shall be the one to benefit.”
Maeve
exhaled. “Thank you.” A nearly forgotten thought surfaced. “Some
months ago I contacted a Professor Burke to meet me here at the
castle and help me to gather information about my family’s
genealogy. I forgot to email him and tell him my flight was delayed.
Has the professor contacted you?”
“Yes,
I spoke with Professor Burke at some length and now that I know
you’re a dé Burgo your research project makes perfect sense.
The dé Burgos have shared a stunning history with Castle
Tullamore. Your family has been here since the beginning.”
“I’ve
been told I was named for a great ancestor of mine, Lady Maeve dé
Burgo. I’m looking forward to learning more about her.”
Áine
did not appear to be the least bit surprised by this bit of
information. “There’s been a mild setback. I am sorry to say
Professor Burke isn’t coming. He called yesterday to cancel your
appointment. He must attend to emergency business in France and will
not return for a fortnight. He apologized profusely for the sudden
change of plans.”
“The
professor’s not coming?” The energy drained from her. “I’m so
disappointed. That was the core purpose of my trip to Tullamore.”
“Don’t
despair.” Áine lifted her chin. “Another professor has
volunteered to take his place.”
“Who?”
“Ironically
it’s a Professor O’Griofa. He too claims a strong ancestral
connection to Tullamore and has enjoyed a long association with the
castle. Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?” Áine’s
gaze sharpened. “Professor O’Griofa is considered the premier
expert on Castle Tullamore, so it goes to show that tiny setbacks and
substitutions can often be wonderful boons. I’m sure the change was
for the best. Tullamore’s just that kind of place. One must expect
the unexpected.” She reached for a brass skeleton key dangling from
a hook. “We use an old-fashioned key for the O’Griofa suite. Come
with me and I’ll show you to your room.”
Maeve
followed Áine down a long corridor lined with gilt-framed oil
portraits of the castle’s many occupants. They passed a staircase
and approached an antiquated- looking iron-cage elevator.
“We’re
going to take the lift.” Áine took hold of the iron filigree
door and struggled to wrench it open. “This door can be so
stubborn.” She gave the base of the door a brisk kick with the heel
of her shoe until it opened. “Ah, there we go. You’re not
claustrophobic or easily startled by screeching metallic sounds, are
you?”
“No.”
Maeve gazed longingly toward the staircase.
“Don’t worry, the
lift is in excellent working condition. It’s just odd.”
Maeve
lingered at the threshold. “How is it odd?”
“It’s haunted
and there are a few other peculiarities.” “Like what? I would
think haunted is peculiar enough.”
“Oh
there’s much more.” Áine stepped into the lift, pulling
the rolling luggage with her, and motioned for Maeve to follow. “Get
in and I’ll tell you about its many eccentricities.”
Maeve
felt her face blanch as she stepped inside the unsound-looking lift.
Áine
slid the rattling door shut and pressed a button. The lift lurched
with a grating noise and rose to the thumping whir of unseen gears
and pulleys.
Maeve
gulped a nervous breath. “I’ve never been in a lift like this.”
“You
certainly haven’t!” Áine grinned with pride. “It’s one
of a kind. I’ve had guests swear the lift delivered them into
another time and place. Can you imagine that? A few bold souls have
even claimed to encounter entities haunting the lift that encouraged
them to engage in...” She hesitated. “How should I say this?
Amorous behavior. Their actions were quite spontaneous and
uninhibited, but I strongly suspect they didn’t do anything they
didn’t already want to do.”
“Oh
my.” Maeve laughed. “And they blamed the lift?”
The
lift screeched to a jolting halt. Áine drew the door open.
“We’re here.” She motioned for Maeve to exit. “The O’Griofa
suite is at the end of the corridor.”
(Just
wait until Maeve sees the handsome portrait of Lord O’Griofa. She’s
in for trouble…)
About
the Author
Katalina Leon
I’m an artist, an
author, mother and wife. I write for Ellora’s Cave, Loose Id
Publishing and a couple new publishers to be announced soon. I try to
bring a touch of the mystical and a big sense of adventure to
everything I write because I believe there’s a bold, kick-ass
heroine inside all of us who wants to take a wild ride with a strong
worthy hero.
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