“And he finds himself back on the lough,” Thomas finished, a smile in his voice.
“Yes. Home again,” I said.
“Eoin will love that.”
“I thought I would write the first story, the first adventure, and then we can continue to add more, depending on what he is most interested in.”
“What if you give him the book you’ve already made, the one with empty pages, for that purpose, and I help you construct another?” Thomas straightened, drawing my sweater down over my stomach and tucking his tools away, the operation completed. “I’m a decent artist. I can certainly draw a picture of a wee boy in a red boat.”
“I’ll write the words, and you’ll draw the pictures?” I asked, pleased.
“Yes. It will be easier to do that on loose pages. When we’re done, we’ll organize the words and pictures so they correspond. Stitching and gluing will be last.”
“We don’t have much time.”
“Then we should get started, Countess.”
Thomas and I worked deep into the early morning hours on Friday and Saturday—how he managed to work all day and make a child’s book most of the night was beyond me. He created a system so that the pictures and text would align once we bound them, and I began to craft the tale, keeping it pithy, limiting the narrative to a small paragraph per page. Thomas added simple pencil sketches beneath the words, interspersing a full-page picture here and there to make it more fun. He gave me a fountain pen with a little well at the top that was big enough to insert ink tablets and a few drops of water. I had to hold the pen just so to keep it from dripping all over the page. I was so inept I resorted to writing in pencil, and Thomas traced my words in ink, his tongue between his teeth, his shoulder hunched over the page.
Brigid, Eoin, Thomas, and I went to Mass on Sunday; Thomas said missing Mass three Sundays in a row would cause almost as big a stir as coming back from the dead. Which was what I had done. I found myself eager to see the chapel at Ballinagar again but was filled with dread at the attention I would get. I took extra care with my appearance, knowing I would be judged by it. I decided I would wear the deep-rose dress with the cream-colored cloche hat Beatrice had sent home with Thomas. She had also sent a box of baubles, earrings that worked with several outfits, several pairs of gloves, and a charcoal-gray handbag that was neutral enough to carry with anything.
Beatrice had tucked a shaving kit in the parcels as well, one that was identical to Thomas’s—a little box of blades and a thick handle with a wide head, all kept in a small tin box with an eagle emblazoned on the cover. I wondered if Thomas had noticed that I’d borrowed his a few times and purchased another so that I would stop. The razor was bulky and unwieldy compared to what I was used to, but with care and attention, it worked. I didn’t know if women of the era shaved, but if Thomas had provided me with a razor of my own, it couldn’t be completely unheard of.
I experimented with the cosmetics, smoothing on the vanishing cream, following it with the powder, the rouge, and the eyelash tint, and was pleasantly surprised by the effect. I looked fresh-faced and appealing, and Beatrice had been correct about the shade of pink on my cheeks and lips—subtle yet becoming.
My hair continued to be the most difficult part of the costume, and I wrangled it into a French braid, weaving the curls into place and wrapping the tail of the braid into a knot at my nape. I stuck the knot with a few long pins and willed it to stay put. I wore a corset for the first time, attaching my stockings to the long straps, and I was so tired and winded after dressing, I pledged to never wear it again.
Brigid sniffed when I climbed into the rear seat of the car with Eoin, leaving the front seat to her, but Eoin’s countenance brightened considerably.
“Mass is very long, Mother,” he whispered, warning me. “And Nana won’t let me sit by my friends. But if you sit by me, maybe it won’t be so boring.”
“Someday, you will like it. It can be very peaceful being surrounded by people you care about and who care about you. That is really what church is for. It’s a chance to just sit still and think about all the wonderful things God has made and count all the blessings we have.”
“I am a good counter,” Eoin said hopefully.
“Then you won’t be a bit bored.”
We drove through Dromahair and into the fields, following the same road—albeit an unpaved one—I’d taken with Maeve O’Toole’s instructions ringing in my ears. When I saw the church, it was like glimpsing a familiar face, and I found myself smiling despite my apprehensions. We rumbled to a stop among cars of a similar shape and style, and Thomas opened his door and stepped out, lifting Eoin from the back seat and helping Brigid alight before doing the same for me.
“Brigid, take Eoin and go inside. I need to talk to Anne for a moment,” Thomas instructed. Eoin and Brigid frowned in tandem, but Brigid took the little boy’s hand and started across the grass to the open doors that welcomed the stream of congregants arriving in cars, delivery trucks, and the occasional horse-drawn wagon.
“I saw Father Darby early this morning. He was giving last rites to Sarah Gillis, Mrs. O’Toole’s grandmother.”
“Oh no!”
“The woman was so old, she was praying to go,” he said. “She was a hundred years if she was a day. Her passing is a blessing on the family.”
I nodded, thinking of Maeve and the longevity she would inherit.
“But that’s not why I needed to speak to you. I asked Father Darby to make an announcement today from the lectern. He makes announcements every week—church picnics, death notices, birth notices, pleas for help for this parishioner or that parishioner. You know the kind,” Thomas explained. He took off his hat and placed it on his head again.
“I asked him to announce that you’ve returned home after a long illness, and that you are residing at Garvagh Glebe with your son. I thought it would be easier than trying to tell people one at a time. And no one can follow up Father Darby’s announcement with questions, although they will try when Mass is over.”
I nodded slowly, both nervous and relieved. “What now?”
“Now . . . we have to go inside,” he said with a wry smile.
I balked, and Thomas tipped my chin to meet my gaze beneath the brim of my hat.
“People will talk, Anne. They’ll talk, and they’ll speculate about where you’ve been and what—and who—you’ve been doing it with. What they don’t know, they might fabricate. But in the end, none of that really matters. You’re here, impossible as it seems. And no one can dispute that.”
“I’m here. As impossible as it seems,” I repeated, nodding.
“What you say to fill in the blanks—or not—is entirely up to you. I’ll be beside you, and eventually . . . they’ll lose interest.”
I nodded again, more firmly, and linked my arm through his. “Thank you, Thomas.” My words were paltry, considering how much he’d done for me, but he let me hold on to him, and we entered the church together.
8 July 1921
She is the same. But not the same at all.
Her skin has the same luster, her eyes the same tilt. Her nose, her chin, and the shape of the fine bones of her face are all unchanged. Her hair has grown so long that it brushes the middle of her back. But it is still dark, and it still curls. She is as slight as I remember and not especially tall. Her laugh made me want to weep—a memory come to life, the sound of a sweeter time, of an old friend and new pain. New pain because she has returned, and I’d given up on her. I didn’t find her. She found us, and oddly, she isn’t angry. She isn’t broken. It’s almost as if she isn’t Anne.
Her voice is the same, musical and low, but she speaks slowly now, almost gently, like she’s not sure of herself. And the stories she tells, the poetry that trips so effortlessly from her lips! I could listen for hours, but it’s so unlike the girl I knew. The old Anne used to spit out her words like she couldn’t release them fast enough; she was fiery and full of ideas. She could never sit still. Declan would laugh and kiss her to slow her down. She would try to kiss him back while finishing her point.
Anne has a quiet about her now, an inner calm that is very different—like a contented Madonna, though I wonder if it’s because she has been reunited with Eoin. She watches him with such love and devotion, such fascination, that I am ashamed for doubting her. Her joy in him makes me angry at the years she lost. She should be angry too. She should be sorrowful. She should be scarred. But she’s not. The only visible scar is the gunshot wound on her side, and that, she won’t explain.
She refuses to tell me where she’s been or what has happened to her. I’ve tried to imagine plausible scenarios, and I can’t. Was she wounded in the Rising? Did someone find her and care for her? Did she lose her memory only to regain it five years later? Was she really in America? Is she a British spy? Did she have a lover? Or did Declan’s death send her over the edge? The possibilities—or lack thereof—will drive me mad. When I press her for answers, she seems truly afraid. Then her terror makes her mouth tremble and her hands shake, and she struggles to meet my gaze. And I give up and give in and postpone the questions that must be answered. Eventually.
She has holes in her ears—and diamonds, until she sold them—but no gap between her front teeth. I noticed it when she begged to clean them the first time, and I don’t know what to make of it. Maybe my memory’s flawed, but the straight white row of perfect teeth seems wrong.
When I pulled her from the lake, she answered immediately to her name, yet she didn’t call me by mine. I shudder to think what would have happened had I not been there. I’d been returning from checking on Polly O’Brien across the lough, the first time I’d been there in ages. A complete fluke that I was there at all. I heard a crack, unmistakable, and nothing more. Minutes later, she called out, leading me to her. She has been leading me by the nose ever since, and I have no idea what to do about it.
When she is out of my sight, I don’t breathe easy until I see her again. Brigid thinks Anne will take Eoin and run if given the chance. I’m afraid of that too, and though I am drawn to her like never before, I don’t trust her. It’s made leaving much harder. For Eoin’s sake, I don’t want to frighten Anne off. And if I’m being honest, I can’t bear to see her go.
I went to Dublin in June, making rounds to Dublin’s jails, using my medical credentials to check on the political prisoners Mick was negotiating to get released. Lord French has resigned from his duties, but the clearance he gave me during the hunger strikes still got me in almost everywhere. I was denied visits with a few prisoners, which most likely meant the prisoners were in rough shape, too rough for an official inspection. I threatened and waved my papers around, insisting I be allowed to do my job, which got me in a few more doors but not all. I made special note of where the men were being kept, gathered as much information as I could from their jailers, and made sure Mick knew which prisoners were in the greatest danger of not making it out again.