What the Wind Knows(31)

A soft knock at the door had me abandoning my hair and curling my bare toes nervously against the wood floors.

“Come in,” I called, kicking the corset across the floor. It slid under the bed, a buckle peeping out accusingly.

“You found your things, then,” Thomas said, his mouth soft and his eyes sad.

It felt like yet another lie to admit to a previous ownership, so I drew attention to the wrinkles in the linen. “It needs to be pressed.”

“Yes . . . well, it’s been in that chest a long time,” he said.

I nodded and smoothed it self-consciously.

“Is there anything else in there you can wear?” he asked, his voice pained.

“A few things,” I hedged. I would need to sell my ring and the diamond studs in my ears. I couldn’t get by with the contents of the chest. Thomas clearly agreed.

“You’ll need more than the dress you were married in. You could wear it to Mass, I suppose,” he mused.

“Married in?” I said, too surprised to guard my tongue. I touched my head, thinking of the hat Anne had worn in the picture. It hadn’t looked like a wedding photo.

“You don’t remember that either?” His voice rose in disbelief, and the softness of fond memories left his eyes when I answered him with a shake of my head. “It was a good day, Anne. You and Declan were so happy.”

“I didn’t see a . . . veil . . . in the chest,” I said inanely.

“You wore Brigid’s veil. You didn’t like it very much. It was beautiful, a little out of fashion, but you and Brigid . . .” Thomas shrugged as if the poor relationship was old news.

Mystery solved. I breathed deeply and tried to meet Thomas’s gaze.

“I’ll change into the wool suit,” I murmured, looking away, desperate to change the subject.

“I don’t know why Brigid saved that. Ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. But you’re right. That dress won’t do.”

“Brigid says I need to cut my hair,” I said. “But I’d rather not. I just need some pins or ties, and I’ll make it look presentable. I could also use a little help tying my boots.”

“Turn around,” Thomas ordered.

I did as he asked, unsure but obedient. I gasped when he took my hair in his hands and began braiding, weaving the strands around each other until he had a long plait. I was so surprised, I remained perfectly still, welcoming the feel of his hands in my hair once more. He tied off the braid and looped the end and then looped it again, piercing the whole thing several times with what felt like hairpins.

“Done!” he exclaimed.

I felt the coiled knot at the base of my skull and turned around. “You are full of surprises, Thomas Smith. You carry hairpins in your pockets?”

His cheeks pinked the slightest bit, a blush so faint I would have missed it if I hadn’t been standing so close and looking so intently.

“Brigid told me to give them to you.” He cleared his throat. “My mother always had long hair. I watched her wind it up a thousand times. After her stroke, she couldn’t do it. Sometimes I would do it for her. I didn’t do a bang-up job. But if you wear that ugly hat with that hideous suit, no one will be looking at your hair.”

I laughed, and his eyes fell to my smile.

“Sit down,” he commanded, pointing to the bed. I obeyed again, and he grabbed the boots.

“No stockings in there?” He tossed his head toward the chest.

I shook my head.

“Well, we’ll fix that as soon as we can. But for now, boots.” He sank down on his haunches and I pushed my foot into the upheld shoe. He made short work of the hooks and eyes, my foot resting against his chest.

“I can’t help you with that,” he murmured, his eyes on the corset that was all too visible from his angle.

“I won’t be wearing it any time soon. I’m too sore, and no one will be able to tell anyway.”

“No. I don’t suppose they will.” The flush colored his cheeks again, and it puzzled me. He was the one who brought it up. He finished tying my other boot and set it gently on the floor. He didn’t rise but clasped his hands between his knees and looked at the floor, his head bowed.

“I don’t know what to tell them, Anne,” he said. “I can’t keep you a secret forever. You’ve got to help me. You’ve been dead for five years. It would help if we had an explanation—even if it’s pure fiction.”

“I’ve been in America.”

His eyes shot to mine. “You left your child, a babe, and went to America?” His voice was so flat I could have built a wall on it. I looked away.

“I was unwell. Mad with grief,” I murmured, unable to meet his gaze. I had been in America. And when Eoin died, I was mad with grief.

He was quiet, and from the corner of my eyes, I could see his slightly stooped shoulders, the stillness in the tilt of his head.

“Brigid says I look like I’ve escaped from an asylum. Maybe that’s what we should tell them,” I continued, wincing.

“Jaysus,” Thomas whispered.

“I can play the part,” I said. “I feel crazy. And God knows I’m lost.”

“Why do you have to play a part? Is it true? What’s the truth, Anne? That’s what I want to know. I want to know the truth. You can lie to the rest of them, but please don’t lie to me.”