encouraged my drawing and my art; I thank you for that, you and Ma. If you had not encouraged me, there is no telling whether or not I would have pursued the desire to create all these years. Perhaps I would still be sketching, but I surely would not have possessed the courage to exhibit my work. This particular painting is an oil of a woman with flowing blond hair and the most beautiful blue eyes. When they asked who modeled for it, I told them it was not any single woman but the combined images of many women. This was not the truth, but it was not wholly a lie, either. You see, I based the sketch for the painting on the drawings I did of you when I was a little girl. Dozens of pictures, all of the same woman, yet not the same. I was always perplexed by this. To this day, I cannot capture your likeness on canvas. The women I draw are all beautiful, but they are never you, not quite, not even today. If I were to send this letter, I would include one, but, alas, it will not be sent.
I am rambling again.
Bram.
Let me tell you about Bram.
He has grown into a fine young man!
There is not a time he walks down the street and does not turn the head of a lady. He is tall and strong, a star athlete, by all accounts, at Trinity College—rugby, racewalking, rowing, gymnastics. I do not believe there is a sport he cannot master. He has had not a hint of illness since he was a child, since you . . . you . . . What did you do that night?
What did you do to my brother?
Is he still my brother?
He does not speak of it.
Not a word.
From the moment we returned to the castle tower with Pa through today, it is as if none of the events of those days took place.
Uncle Edward healed him.
Uncle Edward and his leeches.
That is what he tells anyone who asks; Ma and everyone else back up this story.
We know differently, though, do we not?
You and I?
If you had not come into our lives, would I have Bram today?
Is he even my Bram? My brother?
* * *
? ? ?
I have seen you, you know.
Just recently in Paris. I was on the Champs-élysées, and I saw you standing beneath the awning of a small patisserie. Your hair was styled differently, but even from across the street I knew it was you. I tried to cross over to you, but the crowd was so thick at that time of day I lost you amongst the rushing Parisians.
Did you see me?
Did you run from me?
If I showed one of my drawings to the people in that crowd, would they have recognized you and pointed in the direction in which you had gone? Or would they have simply shaken their heads and continued on their way? I bet the latter.
Where have you been? Where did you go? Where are you as I write this today?
* * *
? ? ?
Thornley is teaching medicine now! Everyone says he will go far, and I know he never intended anything else. He graduated from Queen’s College in Galway and studied at the Royal College of Surgeons. He has been a surgeon at Dublin City Hospital, teaches at Richmond Hospital, and spends much of his time at Swift’s Hospital for Lunatics, a particular fascination for him. He stays busy—too busy. A far cry from delivering live packages to you during the night.
Dick is following fast on his heels, eager to study medicine after Rathmines School. I suppose he is still Baby Richard to you, considering he was only two years old when last you saw him.
Thomas has action in his bones. He has his sights set on joining the Bengal Civil Service the moment he graduates from Trinity next year, can you imagine? Pa says he will have a lot more studying to do