What the Wind Knows

by Amy Harmon

  I’d wished Thomas a soft Merry Christmas and happy birthday, and I could tell I’d caught him by surprise, as though he’d forgotten himself or had not expected me to remember. I had gifts for him and a cake in the larder but would wait until later in the day to call attention to his birthday.

  He had drawn me into his room and shut the door behind us, pulling me to him with quiet vehemence, ravenous yet reverent, kissing me like he’d thought about kissing me all night and didn’t know when he’d kiss me again. Thomas was not a ladies’ man. In fact, I had the distinct impression he’d never been serious about anyone before me, but he kissed with a confidence born of commitment, holding nothing back and demanding everything in return. Michael Collins had joked that if Thomas loved like he danced, I was a very lucky lady. Thomas loved like he danced, like he doctored, like he did everything else—with total commitment and careful attention to detail. We were both breathless and panting when I extricated myself and tiptoed down the stairs to my room.

  Thomas, Michael, and Joe O’Reilly had spent much of the night in the library, the rumble of their voices and the occasional burst of laughter warming me as I drifted off to sleep.

  Now dawn had broken, though the sun in the winter months was sluggish and slow, the sky shifting on a gradient of gray before finally finding daylight. I pulled on the deep-blue robe I’d left on the end of my bed, stuffed my feet into a pair of wool socks, and slipped out of my room and into the parlor, expecting to find Eoin inspecting packages beneath the tree. I found Maeve stoking the fire instead, her tongue between her teeth, a smudge of soot on her nose.

  “Are you and I the first ones up?” I whispered, feeling like a giddy child.

  “Oh no, miss. Eleanor, Moira, and Mam are in the kitchen. Dr. Smith, Mr. Collins, my brothers, and a dozen others are in the yard.”

  “In the yard?” I hurried to the window, peering through the clinging mist and halfhearted dawn. “Why?”

  “Hurling, ma’am! They’ve got quite a match going. My brothers were so excited they didn’t sleep a wink. Last Christmas, Doc gave them hurling sticks of their own and promised them they could play with the grown-ups this year. He had a wee stick made for Eoin too. He’s out there now, probably making a nuisance of himself,” she grumbled, and I was reminded of the old woman she would become, the Maeve with thick glasses who said she knew Anne well and who called Eoin a scamp.

  “Eoin’s outside?”

  She nodded and sat back on her heels, dusting her hands on her apron.

  “Maeve?”

  “Yes, miss?”

  “I have something for you.”

  She smiled, the fire forgotten. “For me?”

  I went to the tree and took a heavy wooden box from beneath it. It was lined and quilted to protect the fragile items inside. I handed it to Maeve, who held it reverently.

  “It’s from Dr. Smith and me. Open it,” I urged, smiling. I’d seen a tea set displayed in Kelly’s pawnshop and had recognized the delicate rose pattern. When I told Thomas the story, he had insisted on buying the entire set, complete with saucers, a pitcher, and a sugar bowl with a spoon.

  Maeve gingerly opened the box, prolonging the anticipation for as long as she could. When she saw the little teacups nestled in pink satin, she gasped, sounding like the young lady she was becoming.

  “If you would like a hurling stick of your own, I can arrange that too,” I murmured. “We girls shouldn’t miss the fun, just because we’re ladies.”

  “Oh no, miss. Oh no. These are so much better than a silly stick!” She was panting in delight, touching the petals with soot-stained fingers.

  “Someday, years from now, when you are grown, a woman from America, a woman named Anne, just like me, will come to Dromahair, looking for her family. She’ll come to your house for tea, and you will help her. I thought you might need a tea service of your own for when that day finally comes.”

  Maeve stared at me, her mouth forming a perfect O, her blue eyes so wide they filled her thin face.

  She crossed herself as if my predictions had frightened her. “Do you have the sight, miss?” she whispered. “Is that why you’re so clever? My da says you are the smartest lass he’s ever met.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t have the sight . . . not exactly. I am just a storyteller. And some stories come true.”

  She nodded slowly, her eyes clinging to mine. “Do you know my story, miss?”

  “Your story is a very long one, Maeve,” I said, smiling.

  “I like the big books best of all,” she whispered. “The ones with dozens of chapters.”

  “Your story will have a thousand chapters,” I reassured.

  “Will I fall in love?”

  “Many times.”

  “Many times?” she squeaked, thrilled.

  “Many times.”

  “I’ll never forget you, Miss Anne.”

  “I know you won’t, Maeve. And I won’t ever forget you.”

  I dressed quickly, loosely braiding my hair and pulling on a dress, my boots, and a shawl, not wanting to miss a chance to watch the match. I’d been raised by an Irishman but had never seen hurling even once in my life. They wielded sticks, their faces fierce in the morning mist. They darted and dashed, driving a small ball from one end of the grass to the other. Eoin wielded his own stick, though he was relegated to the sidelines with a small ball that he hit and then chased over and over again. He ran to me when he saw me exit the house; his nose was as red as his hair. Thankfully he wore a coat and a cap, though his hands were icy when I reached down to clasp them.

  “Merry Christmas, Mother!” he crowed.

  “Nollaig shona dhuit,” I answered, kissing his cherry cheeks. “Tell me, who’s winning?”

  He wrinkled his nose at the men roaring and trampling over one another, their shirtsleeves rolled, their collars unbuttoned. He was clearly impervious to the cold and shrugged. “Mr. Collins and Doc keep pushing each other down, and Mr. O’Toole can’t run, so he keeps getting knocked over.”

  I giggled, watching as Thomas smacked the ball to Fergus, who deftly sidestepped a charging Michael Collins, his mouth moving as fast as his legs. Some things had not, and seemingly would not, change through the decades. Trash talking was clearly part of the game. Two teams of ten players each had been cobbled together from among the neighboring families. Eamon Donnelly, the man who had supplied the cart the day Thomas pulled me out of the lough, had joined in the competition, and he waved at me merrily before taking a swing at the ball. I watched, fascinated, cheering for everyone and no one in particular, though I winced every time Thomas skidded across the grass and held my breath when sticks clashed and legs tangled. Somehow everyone survived without serious injury, and Michael proclaimed his team the victors after two hours of intense play.

  Everyone tumbled into the kitchen for refreshment—coffee and tea, ham and eggs, and rolls so sticky and sweet I was full after two bites. The neighbors were quick to disperse, heading home to their families and traditions, and after Thomas, Michael, Joe, and Fergus washed up and rejoined us in the parlor, we gathered around the tree and exchanged gifts. Michael pulled Eoin into his lap, and together they read the story we’d written. Michael’s voice was low and soft, the burr of his West Cork brogue around the words making my heart ache and my eyes smart. Thomas laced his fingers in mine, stroking my thumb in quiet commiseration.

  When the story was finished, Michael looked down at Eoin, his eyes bright, his throat working. “Can you keep this for me, Eoin? Can you keep it here at Garvagh Glebe so we can read it together whenever I come to visit?”

  “You don’t want to bring it to your house to show your mother?” Eoin asked.

  “I don’t have a house, Eoin. And my mother is with the angels.”

  “And your da too?”

  “And my da too. I was six, just like you are now, when my father died,” Michael said.

  “Maybe your mother will come back like mine did,” Eoin mused. “You just have to wi
sh very hard.”

  “Is that what you did?”

  “Yes.” Eoin nodded soberly. “Doc and I found a clover with four leaves. Four-leaf clovers are magic, you know. Doc told me to make a wish, so I did.”

  Michael’s brows rose. “You wished for a mother?”

  “I wished for a whole family,” Eoin whispered, but everyone heard him. Thomas’s hand tightened around mine.

  “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.

  “It’s nothing. Don’t fret now. Let’s eat.” Maggie O’Toole clapped her hands, urging her family to fill their plates. After a quick look at me, they obeyed, digging into the feast with the appreciation of those who had once known hunger. I filled Eoin’s plate as well, urging him back to his own chair. The chatter rose among the young people, but the adults ate in silence, listening for the men to return, anxious for reassurance.

  “Why would she run like that, Anne?” Michael asked me, his voice pitched low.

  “I can think of only one reason,” I murmured. “She must think her son is involved.”

  “Fergus would only fire if he had to, Anne,” Joe protested.

  “He might have had to,” I muttered, my heart in my throat.

  “Jaysus wept,” Joe muttered.

  “The Gallagher boys aren’t with us, then?” Michael sighed. “They aren’t the only ones.” I figured if Fergus had told Michael about the proposal the previous evening, he’d also told him about Ben Gallagher’s presence and his displeasure at discovering Michael Collins at Garvagh Glebe, but apparently not.

  Brigid came back inside, pale but poised, and apologized for her hasty exit. “I worried over nothing,” she said quietly, but she offered no further explanation.

  We finished dinner and still Thomas and Robbie had not returned. Eoin was drawn into a game of charades with the O’Tooles, and Michael, Joe, and I slipped out the front door and into the twilight, unable to wait any longer. We were met by Thomas and Robbie coming through the trees where the marsh met the lake on the east side of Lough Gill. Their clothes were wet to their hips from walking through the bog, and they were shivering and tight-lipped.

  “What happened?” Michael asked. “Where’s Fergus?”

  “He’ll be along shortly,” Thomas answered and tried to herd us toward the house.

  “Who did he shoot, Tommy?” Michael demanded, refusing to budge, his voice grim.

  “Nobody from Dromahair, thank God. There won’t be any locals missing a father or a son,” Thomas muttered. Reluctance and regret bracketed his mouth, and he rubbed at his eyes wearily. “Fergus said the man had a rifle, long range, aimed at the house. He’d been dug in for a while, waiting for his shot from the looks of it.�
��

  “Waitin’ for me?” Michael asked, his voice flat.

  Robbie’s good eye shifted nervously in his head, and he shivered violently. “I recognized him, Mr. Collins. He was a gunrunner for the Volunteers. I saw him a few times with Liam Gallagher. They called him Brody, though I don’t know if that was his first or last name. Liam’s runners haven’t fared especially well.”

  “How’s that?” Michael asked.

  “Martin Carrigan was killed by the Tans last July, and now Brody’s got himself killed too. They weren’t with our column, but they were on our side,” Robbie protested, shaking his head as though he couldn’t make sense of it.

  “The sides are shifting, lad,” Michael said. “And every man is feeling caught in the middle.”

  “Martin Carrigan was bearded, Anne, and blond,” Thomas said, his eyes holding mine. “I think he may have been one of the men on the riverboat on the lough last June. Brody matches your description of the third man. I didn’t put it together until Robbie told me they were Liam’s boys.”

  “What are you saying, Tommy? What riverboat?” Michael wasn’t following. Robbie didn’t answer, and Thomas was silent, waiting for me to put the pieces together.

  “What he’s saying, Michael, is the man Fergus shot this evening wasn’t necessarily here to kill you,” I said, reeling.

  “What?” Joe O’Reilly cried, completely flummoxed.

  “He may have been trying to kill me,” I said.

  26 December 1921

  I married Anne today. For all their physical similarities, she no longer reminds me of Declan’s Anne. She is my Anne, and that is all I see. She wore Brigid’s veil and Anne Finnegan’s dress, a Christmas angel all in white. When I remarked on her choice, she simply smiled and said, “How many women get to wear their great-grandmother’s dress and their great-great-grandmother’s veil?” She carried a cluster of holly, the red berries vivid in her pale hands, and wore her dark hair down. It curled around her shoulders beneath the veil. She looked so beautiful.