Locket of Atara

By Robert Stanley Hall

A fictional tale set in southern Ireland, about the present and the past, it will take you back to 1800's when the country was suffering potato famine and the plague, the herione Kate finds out the answers to questions about her family tree, and about dark deeds that were committed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496999542

Robert Stanley Hall

Robert Stanley Hall is a seventy-four years old author. He worked as a milkman for nine years. He is a qualified HGV/bus mechanic. He was also in the air force for ten years, a teaching assistant for six years where this book "Honeypot Wood" was born.

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© 2014, 2015 Robert Stanley Hall. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/13/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9953-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9954-2 (e)

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 Family Secrets

Chapter 3 Betrayal

Chapter 4 Flight

Chapter 5 Back To The Present

Chapter 6 The Manor House

Chapter 7 Father Murphy

Chapter 8 The Chapel Reveals Its Secrets

Chapter 9 Cork And New York

Chapter 10 Journeys End

CHAPTER 1

As she stepped down from the black taxi cab, eighteen year old Katherine Powel knew she was home, the journey from Cork had seemed to take a life time, but now standing in front of the O’Reilly family manor house, Atara, she knew that at last, her journey was at an end.

Tossing her shoulder length flame red hair, Katherine stretched her arms up to towards the sky and spun around in a slow circle drinking in the atmosphere, then, she turned and gazed at the big old grey manor house with a deep affection that only her Nan would have understood.

Kate was taller than her mother, about five ten maybe eleven and her figure had filled out in all the right places, provoking one or two wolf whistles back home, especially when she wore her high heeled shoes to college.

As she gazed at the manor house her memory drifted back four years, to the last summer holiday she had spent here, then, closing her eyes she let the smell of the burning wood fires and the sound of the Atlantic breakers crashing on the cliffs below assail her senses.

This is the Ireland that I love, she thought brushing a tear away, as she fondly remembered the happy times she had spent here with her Nan, and the way they had laughed together at her attempts to speak Gaelic.

Oh! How she would miss the love her Nan had showered on her during her stays.

Staring at the imposing grey building a shudder ran down her back as she remembered a spring day last year while they were walking in the woods, her Nan had started to tell her about a great wrong that had been done to the O’Reilly family line in 1846.

Dark deeds were committed by our ancestors my girl and to this day what they were and how they were done is still a mystery.

Then, just as she was going to say more their dogs ran off chasing a rabbit and the subject was never raised again.

Now, she had come all the way from England to attend her Nan’s funeral and even though she dearly missed her Nan, she knew that she had to be big and strong for her mother, who dressed all in black, was huddled in the back of the taxi with her head resting on her husband’s shoulder, which like a sponge had soaked up her tears of loss all through the service.

It had been a moving ceremony, attended only by family and close friends who Katy did not remember, and as it was the first funeral she had attended, the gravity of it was all too apparent to her.

She had cried her tears and could cry no more, for her Nan and now all she wanted to do was to get back to the big old house, which she vowed would be hers someday.

With a tender squeeze of Katy’s hand her mother motioned for her to go on in, aware of her Daughter’s deep affection for the manor house, that she herself had left over twenty years ago to move to England, where she had met and married Katy’s father a successful lawyer.

Katy ran up the worn stone steps two at a time, through the large imposing open oak doors and on into the large hall, hoping that they would still be hanging there. They had to be there, ah! Yes, there they were, high upon the stair wall gazing down at her, hung the portraits of all her ancestors, going all the way back to 1845 and the great potato famine and beyond, mostly they were of stern proud men, but there were a few women, her Nan being one of them.

But there was one painting that always left her breathless; it was of a young girl standing on a cliff top looking out to sea, her long red hair billowing out behind her in the strong wind, with her rain swept Blue cotton dress peasants dress, clinging to her body like a second skin.

What is she watching, who is she, and why is she so sad? thought Katy.

Her Nan had always told her that it was a painting of a village girl who had married a distant relative in 1845, much to his father’s disapproval, who disowned him after their marriage.

Then a year later he committed a