I took the cup from his hands, set it aside, and climbed onto his lap, my hands splayed lightly on his shoulders. He didn’t wrap his hands around my hips and pull me into his body. He didn’t bury his face in my neck or lift his face for my kiss. His despondence filled the space between us and tightened the muscles of his thighs, which were bracketed between my knees. I began to unbutton his shirt. One button. Two. Three. I paused to press a kiss to the exposed skin at his throat. He smelled of coffee and the rosemary-scented soap Mrs. O’Toole made.
He smelled of me.
Heat coiled in my belly, crowding out my fear, and I rubbed my cheek against his, back and forth, nuzzling him, my hands continuing their work. He would need to shave again soon. His jaw had grown rough, and his eyes were bruised as he watched me remove his shirt. When I urged his arms over his head to pull his undershirt free, he wrapped one hand around my jaw, drawing my mouth within a breadth of his.
“Are you trying to save me, Anne?”
“Always.”
He shuddered, letting me kiss the corners of his mouth before I touched my tongue to the crease between his lips. His chest was warm and firm beneath my hands, and I felt the quickening of his heart, the parting of the darkness from the dawn, as he closed his eyes and opened his mouth against mine.
For a moment we communed in caresses, in kisses that deepened and drew us out of ourselves only to softly set us down again. We rose and fell into each other, mouths sated and slow, lips languorous and lush, tongues tangling only to unravel and reunite.
Then his hands were sliding up my calves beneath the blue robe cinched at my waist, gripping the length of my thighs and kneading the flesh of my bottom. His palms skimmed, frantic, over my ribs and across my breasts only to circle back, cupping and cradling, worshipful but insistent. He slid, taking me with him, abandoning the chair for the floor, forsaking misery for commiseration. His mouth made the journey of his hands, parting my robe and pushing it aside until I was naked beneath him, breathing love into his skin and life into his body and being saved in return.
17 January 1922
On 14 January, the Dáil met again, its numbers almost halved by the exit of de Valera and all those who refused to recognize the vote. Arthur Griffith had been voted president of the Dáil upon de Valera’s resignation, and Mick was appointed as the chairman of the new provisional government organized under the terms of the Treaty.
Anne and I had not remained in Dublin after the final debate and the vote that shattered the Dáil. We were anxious to escape Dublin, to return to Eoin and the peace of Dromahair, relative as it was. But we returned, Eoin in tow, to watch as Dublin Castle, the symbol of British dominion in Ireland, was handed over to the provisional government.
Mick was late for the official ceremony. He rolled up in an open-top government car, his old Volunteer uniform pressed, his boots gleaming. The people roared their approval, and Eoin waved madly from where he was perched on my shoulders, calling out, “Mick, Mick!” as though he and Michael were old friends. I was so moved that I couldn’t speak, and Anne cried openly beside me.
Mick later told me that Lord FitzAlan, the viceroy who had replaced Lord French, sniffed and said, “You are seven minutes late, Mr. Collins,” to which Mick responded, “We’ve been waiting seven hundred years, Governor. You can wait seven minutes.”
On Tuesday, we watched as the Civic Guard, Ireland’s newly formed police force, marched towards Dublin Castle in their dark uniforms and emblemed caps to assume their new duties. Mick says they are the first recruits, but there will be more. Half the country is out of work, and applications are pouring in.
Whatever the people have said about Mick or about the Treaty, watching the peaceful transfer of power was a moment I will never forget. In every home, on the streets, and in the papers, Dubliners are marveling that this day has come. And the effects of the Treaty are not just evident in the city. Everywhere in Ireland, at all but three of the port garrisons, British troops are preparing to leave. The Auxiliaries