Shadows

By Denise Cory Blake

Shadows; a story as Irish as shamrocks, leprechauns, Guinness and peat bogs but with the deep roots of England in its soul. No line divides the two, for they go together, as close as that of Toby's hand in his father's, a man he has yet to know, the two Irish wolfhounds loping along beside them in the grounds of Ballygairn, that beguiling old ho

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookTrail Publishing
• Release date: Jun 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637671955

Denise Cory Blake

I have been writing historical novels for the last four or five years now. This is my latest offering, born of an inquisitive, inquiring mind, which despite my advancing years refuses to lay dormant. I keep coming up with new storylines. Long may I do so!

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Copyright © 2021 by Denise Cory Blake.

ISBN-978-1-63767-194-8 (Paperback)

ISBN-978-1-63767-195-5 (Ebook)

LCCN: 2021907062

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Shadows of the past. We all have them, whether we acknowledge them or not. It casts its glimmer of light over all of us, for good, for bad, or just general indifference where most of us abide, without ever causing a stir or a ripple on the surface of our lives. There are few of us who are destined for either fame or fortune, and those of us its fickle fingers touch, it leaves indelible, sometimes invisible marks of its relentless progress. Tendrils of fate dropped like melting snowflakes, on and around us, without us even being momentarily aware of their presence.

A baby’s wails announced its arrival in the world, conceived in lust, or longing, it hardly mattered except to the poor woman who gives painful birth to the babe. With no father to give legitimacy to his existence, what awaited the poor mite? The mother barely given sight of him before he was whisked away, or in this case two of them by the black frocked priest? No one expected that! One to go to a good catholic family, and the other? Only God knew what happened to him. Two of them, the holy father murmured with a long sigh and a heavy heart. Two lives ruined, he thought distractedly. Well at least one of them, the one to his mind, that would live outside of the religious order of things. The other had a chance.

Chapter One

It was the same dream or was it a nightmare that visited his subconscious just as he entered a deep restless sleep, the thudding of hooves on the hard ground, thunder of musketry, the smell of gun powder in the air, harsh raised voices. The fighting all about him. He heard, still in a dream world, one man’s raised voice. May Mary, the holy mother of God forgive me for what I am about to do! With that his large ham fist struck another man square on the jaw, and he heard a resounding crunch of bone as it landed! The man had a grin the size of a barn door on his weather-beaten face, as he did it. Fire, sparked around him causing mayhem and fear, adding to the furore. The continued fighting particularly in and around the bell tower which overlooked the lake. The mansion had been the first to be set alight, torches thrown through its windows. Some had found a tree which had toppled over in the night and picked it up ramming it against the main entrance. The door barely moved, for it was a strong, stout, iron studded affair and would take more than that to shift it off its hinges. The assailants gave that up as a worthless cause. Fortunately, rain had been so relentless over these last weeks, that nothing caught easily, so little damage was actually done to the structure of the house. Brick work retained some scorch marks but little else. The main damage was done to the stables, the barn as the intruders drove off horses and set light to the carriages. There was more woodwork to catch there. Little damage was done to the bell tower which overlooked the grounds, the large ornate brass bell continued to peal its warning. But why did they seek him out, these ghosts of the past? It was of another era that was obvious to him, his history was a bit sketchy, around 1655, 1656, he guessed. But why him? He was a complete and utter cynic when it came to reliving past encounters, ghosts and all that, but these were more than real to him. These ‘ghosts’, lived and died in his dream, leaving him panting, breathless, and somehow anxious, when he woke. As if, almost, he had been a part of it? Ridiculous to think so! Get a hold of yourself man! He remonstrated severely with himself. Yet, the dreams persisted.

It was not one he had ever had before he owned Ballygairn. In all other respects, it was a beautiful spot located as it was, overlooked in the distance by the Mourn mountains, and overlooking in turn Lough Neagh, and not far from the Antrim coast. Step out onto its fenced pastures, where the horses grazed peacefully, and one could smell the bracken, the moss, wildflowers which nestled in its nooks and crannies, and if the wind were in the right direction, salt sea air, particularly after a stormy night. One of the many tall tales told by the locals, was of its smuggling past, and how their ancestors had in many cases lured the ships onto the rocks, thus staving off starvation in many families during the long cold winter months. Smuggling the mainstay of their existence. It is what kept them alive. There were many legends which abounded, and that was just one of them. Ballygairn, wove a deceptive cloak around its mystic past, and did not easily divulge its secrets. Ballygairn, equally wove its way into his being, into his heart, into his very fabric. His home now, far more than ever England had ever been, certainly more so than the Bayswater flat of his attractive girlfriend Cassandra Sheldon. The wannabe actress. Just a pity, she did not have the talent to go with the looks. Though he never told her that to her face. She was a nice accoutrement to his business, and particularly good at getting his clients to open up both their thoughts, and their wallets. And, he had to admit, she was prone to tantrums, when things did not go as she wanted them to. Her looks were what she relied on, and as long as she kept them, she would always do okay. She hadn’t exactly had any film offers come her way of any note, but a few modelling contracts had, so she wasn’t entirely dependent on Huw for money. When forced to say anything about this, Huw ever the diplomate, murmured something about’ slow and sure’, and beat a hasty retreat.

He had been grateful she had offered to put him up on his rare excursions to London, when it became necessary for him to meet up with his exclusive, rich clientele, with their property ‘wish list’, as long as their arms, and as deep as their bank accounts. What they paid him for his services, he knew demanded his individual attention, and mostly they got it. That was how he made his living after all. Gable Ends, he called his business, and could be run from anywhere in the world, via a laptop. He always thought of himself as rich, and he was, but his Irish home was costing him a small fortune. Right now, he needed the finances from the business, in order to drag his Irish property into the 21st century. Otherwise, he would never get his girlfriend to agree to live there with him. The rural country scene just was not her style, so it had to, at the very least, have workable plumbing, and central heating, neither of which it had