Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 30, Cashelroe, 1904

It was early October, but the weather remained unseasonably mild and bright as the blackberries on the hedgerows ripened. Yet, rather than being warmed by the sun or cheered by the scenery, Clara Sullivan was lost in her own dark musings. She traveled alone, in the now familiar hired Governess cart, making her way to Balfefield Abbey for what she expected to be the final time.

Only two days earlier, she had been in London. From there, she traversed England and Wales by train to catch the steam packet, sailing overnight to arrive in Dublin that morning. Weary, but with her journey not yet over, she rushed to Knightsbridge Station in a Hansom cab and boarded the first available train to Cashelroe. Sleep had been scarce, and now the exhaustion weighed on her like a physical burden.

She loosened her grip on the reins, knowing the pony needed little guidance along the narrow country roads. The rocking motion of the cart almost lulled her to sleep, until a sudden sensation of falling jolted her awake.

Sullivan was aware that the urgency she injected into her journey was not driven by logic or reason. There was no deadline to meet; nothing to be published. She sensed she was being propelled forward by an emotional response, one she could not, as yet, articulate fully. Could what he had told her be true? And yet, even if it were, she could not see that it would change anything, at least not in any meaningful way.

As the pony trotted up the gravel path toward the house, she shielded her eyes from the sun and glanced up, as she always did, at the ruins of the ancient abbey on the grassy hill.

The Abbey had stood long before the house was built and the woodlands sown. It would likely endure after the house crumbled and its occupants faded from memory. Even the murder of a young, beautiful woman would become nothing more than a whisper lost to time.

This time it was Harrington, the coachman, who answered the front door. Sullivan's face must have given away her surprise, but all he said was that he had been in the kitchen when the bell rang.

As they walked down the hallway, Sullivan saw that the pictures and statues had been removed, as was most of the furniture, and what little remained was already under dust covers. The man's heavy boots echoed against the empty walls.

Miranda Darley looked beautiful. Gone was the grey pallor that had seeped into her face while in gaol, and her frame had straightened again as if by virtue of being exposed to the sun; her imposing, elegant bearing restored. Gone to, the dark clothing of mourning worn in court, for now, she wore a finely tailored dress of light blue.

"Clara," she said with a beaming smile when Sullivan entered the drawing room, "what a wonderful surprise to see you. How did you know?"

"Know what?" asked Sullivan.

"That we were leaving Balfefield Abbey this very day? We were keeping it as secret as possible, so as not to arouse the curiosity of the locals."

"I didn't. But I'm glad I caught you. I came because there's something I would like to talk to you about. Something best discussed in person."

Miranda cocked her head slightly to one side as she looked quizzically at Clara but all she said was, "Come, my dear, sit down and I'll ring the bell and have Mrs. O'Brien bring some tea."

It was then Sullivan noticed Kate in the room, sitting in a chair by a window reading a book. The young girl rose and offered a white-gloved hand.

"How do you do, Miss Sullivan," she said a little stiffly. Gone were her maid's gown and apron. She was wearing a lavender-colored, taffeta dress and a string of small pearls with matching earrings.

"Come now, Catherine," said Miranda. It seemed the girl had undergone a change as to how she was addressed as well as what she wore. "There's no need to be so formal with Clara. She's been a wonderful friend to us and should be a role model for you to consider emulating."