What the Wind Knows(42)

He stood and took the plates. “I’ll do the heavy lifting. You can wash.”

We worked quietly, neither of us especially comfortable in the kitchen—though I suspected our reasons were different. I didn’t know where anything belonged, and Thomas wasn’t much help. I wondered if he’d ever washed a dish or prepared a meal.

I was surprised by the luxury—a huge icebox, a large sink, two recessed ovens, eight electric burners, and a pantry—Thomas called it a larder—the size of the dining room. The counter space was vast, each surface clean and well cared for. I already knew the home, and the comforts weren’t typical of average homes in 1920, especially in rural Ireland. I’d read Thomas’s journal entry about Garvagh Glebe, about his stepfather, about the wealth he’d inherited and the responsibility he felt because of it.

I collected all the food from the plates and put it into a bowl, afraid to throw it away. Didn’t pigs eat scraps? I knew Thomas had pigs and sheep and chickens and horses that the O’Tooles looked after. I rinsed the plates and saucers, stacking them on top of each other in one basin, unable to locate anything that resembled dish soap. Thomas cleared the dining room table, shoved the leftovers into the icebox, and put the bread and butter in the larder. I wiped off the counters, admiring the heavy wood surfaces worn and well used by hands more able than mine. I was sure Brigid would be down to check my work, but until I had some practical instruction, it was the best I could do.

“Why are you afraid?” Thomas asked quietly, watching me finish.

I turned off the water and blotted my hands dry, satisfied that we’d cleaned up enough to keep the mice away.

“You said when you’re not terrified, you’re incredibly grateful. Why are you terrified?” he pressed.

“Because everything is very . . . uncertain.”

“Brigid is afraid you will take Eoin and leave. That is why she is behaving so badly,” Thomas said.

“I won’t. I would never . . . where would I go?” I stammered.

“That depends. Where have you been?” he asked, and I pivoted away from the question he persisted in asking.

“I would never do that to Eoin, to Brigid, or to you. This is Eoin’s home,” I said.

“And you are his mother.”

I wanted to confess that I was not, that I had no claim on him beyond love. But I didn’t. To confess would be to sever my access to the only thing I cared about. So I confessed the only truth I could. “I love him so much, Thomas.”

“I know you do. If I know nothing else, I know that.” Thomas sighed.

“I promise you, I will not take Eoin from Garvagh Glebe,” I pledged, meeting his gaze.

“But can you promise that you won’t leave?” Thomas said, finding the chink in my armor.

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “I can’t.”

“Then maybe you should go, Anne. If you’re going to go, go now, before more damage is done.”

He wasn’t angry or accusatory. His eyes were grim and his voice was soft, and when tears rose in my throat and welled in my eyes, he drew me to him gently and embraced me, stroking my hair and patting my back as though I were a child. But I did not relax against him or let my tears fall. My stomach roiled, and my skin felt too tight. I pulled away, afraid that the panic scratching at my heels and oozing out the palms of my hands would break free in his presence. I turned and walked from the kitchen as swiftly as I was able, holding the stitch in my side, focused only on the safety of a closed door.

“Anne. Wait,” Thomas called behind me, but a door slammed, and excited voices filled the kitchen as a worn couple, their clothes tidy but a little tattered, crowded around Thomas, keeping him from pursuing me as I slipped down the hallway toward my bedroom.

“Our Eleanor says Mrs. Gallagher dismissed her, Doctor! She cried all the way home, and I’m beside myself. If there’s a problem, you’ll tell me, won’t you, Dr. Smith?” the woman cried.

“You’ve always been fair with us, Doctor. More than fair, but if the girl doesn’t know what she’s done wrong, how can she fix it?” the man joined in. The O’Tooles had interpreted Eleanor’s early night exactly as Thomas said they would.

Poor Thomas. It must be hard always being right. He was right about so many things. If I was going to go, I should go now. He was right about that too.

I just didn’t know how.





28 November 1920

I sat with Mick in Dublin last Saturday, eating eggs and rashers at a place on Grafton Street called the Café Cairo. Mick always eats like it’s a race, shoveling food into his mouth, his eyes on his plate, focused on the task of refilling so he can keep moving. It never fails to amaze me how freely he moves about the city. He usually wears a neat grey suit and a bowler hat, rides his bike as often as not, and smiles and waves and makes small talk with the very people who are hunting him. He hides in plain sight, and runs circles, literally and figuratively, around everyone else.

But he was fidgety last Saturday, impatient. And at one point he shoved his plate aside and leaned across the table towards me until our faces were mere inches apart.

“Ya see the Cocks at the back tables, Tommy? Don’t look right now. Wait a bit and drop your napkin.”

I took a deep pull of the black coffee in front of me and knocked my napkin to the floor as I set my cup back down. As I retrieved the napkin, I let my eyes trip across the half-filled tables along the far wall. I knew instantly which men he was referring to. They wore three-piece suits and ties, not uniforms. Their hats were pulled lower on the right than the left, demanding your gaze, while their eyes warned you to quickly look away. I didn’t know if they were Cockneys, but they were Brits. There were five at one table and a few more at the next. Maybe it was the way they surveyed the room or talked around their cigarettes, but they were together, and they were trouble.