“That painting.” I pointed at it. “Do you know the name of the child in that painting?”
“I didn’t paint it myself,” he said. “It’s one of Ned Turnbull’s. He has a cottage down by the harbor, if he is not out somewhere painting.” He turned to examine the picture. It was small and dainty compared with its neighbors depicting seascapes and storms. “Pretty little thing, isn’t it? Just right for a lady’s boudoir wall. I wonder if Ned used a local child as a model or just created the whole thing from his imagination.” He leaned closer. “Oh, wait. He’s written it here—Miss Colleen Van Horn, May 1895.”
“Thank you.” I turned to go.
“Are you interested in the painting? I could hold it for you,” he called after me.
I shook my head and managed to stammer out a thank you as I stepped out into the sunshine.
“What was that all about?” Daniel asked, noting the expression on my face.
“That child in the painting—there was something about her face. I know I’ve seen her before.”
“Are you suddenly turning fey on me?” Daniel asked with amusement. “Seeing ghosts and children’s faces everywhere we go?”
I grabbed his arm. “That’s it. That’s why it looked familiar, Daniel. I think it was the same face that I saw in that turret window.”
Daniel sighed. “You’ve already been told that there was nobody in the house that night.”
I shrugged. “If it was a ghost that I saw, it couldn’t have been this child. Van Horn obviously belongs in another of the mansions, not an Irishman’s castle.”
“Van Horn.” Daniel repeated the name. “I’ve come across that name somewhere. It will come back to me. So have we taken enough exercise for one day? I’m ready to head back to our little cottage.”
“Very well.” We set off in that direction. I was still looking around with interest, wanting to examine every church and monument we passed. Daniel had grown silent and unenthusiastic and I was about to allow myself to be led home when I spotted something.
“Daniel, that old churchyard. We have to take a look at that before we go home. I find old cemeteries fascinating, don’t you?”
“On occasion,” he said. We pushed open the rusty gate and wandered between moss-covered stones. I read off dates and names, commenting on each one. “Look, Daniel, this man had three wives and they are all buried with him. And this woman had fourteen children. Fourteen—imagine!”
“I seem to remember reading that this was one of the places where they used to put bells above the graves,” Daniel said, now showing interest. “You don’t suppose there are still any to be found?” He started poking around in deep grass.
“Bells—what for?”
“If the person wasn’t really dead and had been buried by mistake he could tug on the string and the bell would alert people that he wanted to come out.”
“Don’t.” I shivered. “That’s horrible. Buried alive by mistake. Surely that didn’t happen?”
“In the old days they couldn’t tell the difference between a coma and death. Maybe sometimes they didn’t want to.”
“Let’s go. I’ve seen enough.” I took his arm to lead him away. Then my eyes were drawn to a lovely marble monument in the classical style with an angel standing guard and cupids frolicking. I read the inscription and stood staring silently: COLLEEN MARY VAN HORN. BORN FEBRUARY 12 1891. TAKEN FROM US JUNE 15 1895.
“Look, Daniel, how sad,” I said. “It’s the little girl in the painting. She died a month after it was completed.”
Then I read the rest of the words carved into the white marble. OUR LITTLE ANGEL HAS BEEN TAKEN FROM US. BELOVED DAUGHTER OF ARCHIE AND IRENE VAN HORN. BELOVED GRANDCHILD OF BRIAN HANNAN, AND FREDERICK AND MARIE VAN HORN.
“I was right, Daniel,” I said in a shaky voice. “It was her face I saw at the window. There is a ghost at Connemara.”
Five
We walked back to the cottage in silence. I couldn’t stop thinking of that adorable little girl, dead at the age of four. I suppose that now I was married the next logical step was children of our own and I tried to imagine how it would feel to lose a beloved child so young. Of course it happened all the time. So many childhood diseases, so many dangers in life. Daniel sensed my thoughts. “It’s not as if we knew her. Children die all the time. It’s a fact of life. One has to accept it.”