What the Wind Knows(88)
“Do you know, Eoin, if your mother were to marry Doc, then he would be your dad,” Michael suggested oh-so-innocently.
“Why can’t you ever hold your tongue, Mick?” Thomas sighed.
“Fergus said he overheard a proposal last night,” Michael hinted, his grin wicked.
Fergus grunted, but he didn’t defend himself or reproach Michael.
“There’s a small box tucked back on that branch there. Do you see it?” Thomas directed Eoin. Eoin hopped off Michael’s lap and peered into the dense foliage where Thomas was pointing.
“Is it for me?” Eoin chirruped.
“I suppose it is, in a way. Can you fetch it and bring it to me?” Thomas asked.
Eoin retrieved the hidden treasure and brought it to Thomas.
“Would it be all right if your mother opened it, lad?”
Eoin nodded emphatically and watched as I lifted the lid on the tiny velvet box. Inside were two gold bands, one larger than the other. Eoin looked up at Thomas, waiting for an explanation.
“These belonged to my parents. To my father, who died before I was born, and my mother, who married again and gave me another father, a father who was good and kind and loved me even though I was not his son in truth.”
“Just like me and you,” Eoin said.
“Yes. Just like us. I want to marry your mother, Eoin. How do you feel about that?”
“Today?” Eoin said, delighted.
“No,” Thomas began amid laughter all around.
“Why not, Tommy?” Michael pressed, all teasing aside. “Why wait? None of us know what tomorrow will bring. Marry Annie and give the lad his family.”
Brigid’s eyes met mine, and she tried to smile, but her lips were trembling, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth to cover her emotion. I wondered if she was thinking of her own family, and I said a silent prayer for her sons.
Thomas pulled the ring free of the box and held it out to Eoin, who took it and studied the simple band before turning to me.
“Will you marry Doc, Mother?” he asked, extending the ring toward me. I’d always worn Anne’s cameo ring on my right hand—for me it was an heirloom, not a wedding band—and I was grateful that I could slip Thomas’s mother’s ring on my left without any awkwardness.
“It fits,” I said. “Perfectly. I guess that means the answer is yes.”
Eoin cheered and Michael crowed, grabbing the small boy and tossing him in the air.
“Now all we need is Father Darby,” I murmured.
Thomas cleared his throat. “We should set a date.”
“I spoke to him last night after Mass, Thomas,” Mick said, smiling.
“You did?” Thomas gasped.
“I did. I asked him if he was available tomorrow. He said a nuptial Mass could be arranged. We’re all gathered for Christmas. Why not extend the celebration?” Mick urged.
“Yes, why not?” I blurted. The room fell silent, and I felt my face heat.
“Why not, indeed?” Thomas said slowly, stunned. Then a smile, white and blinding, creased his face, and I suddenly couldn’t catch my breath. He tipped my chin and kissed me once, sealing the deal.
“Tomorrow it is, Countess,” Thomas whispered.
Then Eoin was squealing, Michael was stomping, and Joe was pounding Thomas on the back. Fergus ducked out of the room, embarrassed by the display and his part in it, but Brigid sat quietly knitting, her gaze warm and her smile genuine. The O’Tooles would be back for Christmas dinner in the evening, and we would break the news to them then, but I was already counting the hours until I became Anne Smith.
I’d come across a personal account describing an occasion where Michael Collins, Joe O’Reilly, and several others were dining at the Llewelyn-Davies estate in Dublin. The name of the estate—Furry Park—brought to mind a forest full of stuffed animals reminiscent of Christopher Robin and Winnie the Pooh, and I’d wondered at its origins. The whimsy of the tale had ended there, however. It was purported that a man had climbed the trees at Furry Park and attempted to shoot Michael Collins through the dining room windows. Michael Collins’s bodyguard, a man not named in the account, had discovered the sniper, marched him at gunpoint down into the bog, a short distance from the manor, and killed him.
There were conflicting accounts; Michael Collins was reported to have been somewhere else entirely. But the details of the story were strangely similar to what transpired that evening at Christmas dinner.
A shot, muffled and distant, interrupted the blessing being offered over the meal, and our heads rose as one, the prayer forgotten.
“Where’s Fergus?” Michael frowned.
Brigid’s teacup crashed to the floor, and without a word, she was out of her seat, skirts in hand, running for the door.
“Stay here. All of you,” Thomas ordered as Mick jumped to his feet. “I’ll go after Brigid.”
“I’ll go too, Doc.” Robbie O’Toole had risen to his feet, his good eye flat, his blind eye covered.
“Robbie,” Maggie protested, overly protective of her grown son. She’d almost lost him and wasn’t eager for him to take another bullet.
“I know all the lads round here, Mam, and where their loyalties lie. Maybe I can help sort it out.”
We waited in tense silence, staring at our plates. Eoin crawled into my lap and hid his face in my shoulder.