Always and Forever. Cathy Kelly

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       PROLOGUE

      The woman stood as still as the mountains around her, taking in the view from Mount Carraig House – the windswept, overgrown gardens and the ragged path leading down to the small lake. Behind her towered Mount Carraig itself. Rob, the estate agent, had told her that ‘Carraig’ meant ‘rock’ in Irish, and that’s exactly what Mount Carraig was: a spectacular rock dominating a smaller range of mountains known as the Four Sisters, which swelled to the southwest.

      Spread out before her lay Carrickwell, the bustling market town that took its name from the mountain. It was bisected by the silver line of the River Tullow, and from here, high up, she could make out the gently winding main street, the sprawl of houses, shops, parks and schools, and the medieval cathedral at the centre.

      A quarter of a century before, Carrickwell had been a sleepy backwater, within reach of Dublin but still very much a rural community. Time and the price of houses in the city had turned it into a busier town, but the air of tranquillity had remained.

      Some said this was because of the ancient ley lines that crossed it. Druids, early Christians, religious refugees – all in their turn had come to Carrickwell and set up home in the benevolent shadow of Mount Carraig where they could seek refuge and thrive on the pure mountain spring water.

      On a slope to the left of the mountain were the ruins of a Cistercian monastery, now a honey pot for tourists, water-colour painters and scholars. There was also the remains of a round tower where the monks had raced up rope ladders to safety when invaders came.

      Across the town, near the pretty but slightly crumbling Willow Hotel, was a small stone circle that archaeologists believed to be the site of a druidic settlement. Mystical Fires, a small shop in the town that sold all manner of alternative artefacts, from crystals and tarot cards to dream catchers and angel pins, did a roaring trade in books about the druids at midsummer.

      At Christmas, visitors drifted unconsciously away from Mystical Fires to The Holy Land, a little Christian bookshop, where they could buy recordings of Gregorian chant, as well as prayer books, delicate Hummel Holy Water fonts, and the shop’s speciality, mother-of-pearl rosary beads.

      The respective owner of each shop, a pair of lovely septuagenarian ladies, each devout in her chosen creed, didn’t mind in the slightest that their businesses waxed and waned in this manner.

      ‘The wheel of fortune turns in its own way,’ said Zara from Mystical Fires.

      ‘God knows what’s best for us,’ agreed Una from The Holy Land.

      With all the spiritual vibes, there was a great sense of peace hovering over Carrickwell and it drew people to the town.

      It was certainly this aura that had drawn Leah Meyer to Mount Carraig House on a cold September morning.

      Despite a thick woollen jumper under her old ski jacket, Leah could feel the chill sneaking into her body. She was used to the dry heat of California, where cold weather meant 68 degrees Fahrenheit, and the possibility of using less sun screen. Here, the climate was so different and the unaccustomed cold made her feel achey. I’m beginning to feel my age, she thought, shivering, though she knew everyone marvelled at how young she looked.

      She’d taken good care of herself over the years, but time had marched on and, eventually, no cream could keep away its mark. It had taken a discreet eye and brow lift a few years ago to give her back the finely sculpted face she’d been born with. Sixty really could be the new forty, Leah smiled to herself – as long as you had the right plastic surgeon.

      And she could put up with the aching joints for a while because she’d finally found it, the place she had been looking for for years in which to build her spa. Carrickwell and Mount Carraig House were perfect. And in that state of mind, she didn’t feel the air as cold, but as pure and cleansing.

      ‘Calm,’ she said finally, turning to the estate agent, who was standing a polite distance away. ‘That’s the word I was looking for. Don’t you feel instantly calm when you stand here?’

      Rob, the estate agent, studied the tumbling wreck that was Mount Carraig House and wondered whether it was he who needed his head examining or whether it was the elegant American visitor. All he saw was a ruin in a wilderness that had been on his agency’s books for four years with ne’er a sniff of serious interest from anyone.

      A few people had come to look, all right, drawn by the lyrical description written by a one-time employee who had a definite flair for making a silk purse out of the proverbial pig’s ear.

       This elegant eighteenth-century family house, once home to the famous Delaneys of Carrickwell, is designed in the grand classical style and boasts the fabulous high-ceilinged rooms of the period. The sweeping gravel drive and the great portico are reminiscent of a romantic era of horse-drawn carriages, while the abundant formal rose gardens, sheltered from the mountain breezes, need only a skilled gardener’s hands to bring them back to their former glory. The views of the fierce beauty of Mount Carraig and the valley below are unrivalled, and a stately rhododendron walk, planted over a hundred years ago, leads down to the majestic Lough Enla.

      The blarney had worked its magic on Mrs Meyer, for sure, because she’d seen the house on the firm’s website and now, here she was, clearly captivated. Rob could tell when clients liked a place: they stopped noticing him and noticed only the property, imagining their furniture in the rooms and their family’s laughter echoing in the garden. This woman showed all the signs of being besotted. He knew she had money too, because she’d arrived in a sleek black chauffeur-driven car from the airport. It had to be said she didn’t dress like a millionaire – she wore jeans, a very ordinary blue padded coat, simple soft cream pumps and no jewellery.

      It was hard to work out how old she was. Rob liked to put a date to property and people: eighteenth-century house; ’seventies bungalow; forty-something rich businessman buyer. But this woman’s age eluded him. Elegantly slim, with silky chestnut hair and big dark eyes, she could have been anything from thirty to sixty. Her olive skin was unlined and glowing, and she looked so happy within herself. СКАЧАТЬ