me. Deirdre abandoned the portrait immediately, but Maeve was slower to follow. Her eyes ran up and down the shelves, as if she were looking for something in particular.
“Anne?” she mused.
“Yes?”
“There was a whole row of the doctor’s journals in this library at one time. Where are they now? Do you know? I don’t see as well as I once did.”
I stood, my heart pounding, and walked to her side.
“They were on the top shelf. I dusted those books at least once a week for six years.” She extended the cane above her head and rapped it against shelves, as high as she could stretch. “Up there. Do you see them?”
“I would have to climb the ladder, Maeve.” There was a ladder on runners that could move from one end of the shelves to the other, but I hadn’t felt any compunction to climb since moving to Garvagh Glebe.
“Well?” Maeve sniffed. “What are ya waitin’ for?”
“For God’s sake, Maeve,” Deirdre huffed. “You are being incredibly rude. Come sit down and drink your tea before this poor woman has you bodily removed from her home.”
Maeve grumbled, but she turned away from the shelves and did as she was told. I followed her back to the coffee table, my thoughts on the books on the highest shelf. Deirdre poured, making polite conversation as she did, asking me if I was enjoying the manor, the lough, the weather, my solitude. I answered briefly, vaguely, saying all the expected things without really saying anything at all.
Maeve harrumphed into her teacup, and Deirdre threw her a warning glare.
I set my cup down. “Maeve, if you have something to say, please do. You’ve obviously come for a reason.”
“She’s convinced that you are the woman in the painting,” Deirdre rushed to explain. “She’s been asking me to bring her here ever since word spread that you were living at Garvagh Glebe. You must understand . . . the whole village was abuzz when it was believed that another woman drowned in the lough. A woman with the same name! You can’t imagine what a stir it caused.”
“Kevin told me your name is Anne Smith,” Maeve interjected.
“You are Kevin’s great-great—” I paused to calculate how many greats. “He’s your nephew?” I asked.
“Yes. And he’s worried about you. He also says you are expecting a child. Where is the child’s father? He seems to think there isn’t one.”
“Maeve!” Deirdre gasped. “That is none of your business.”
“I don’t care if she’s married, Deirdre,” Maeve snapped. “I just want to hear the story. I’m tired of gossip. I want to know the truth.”
“What happened to Thomas Smith, Maeve?” I asked, deciding I would ask a few questions of my own. “You and I never talked about him.”
“Who was Thomas Smith?” Deirdre said between sips.
“The man who painted that picture,” Maeve said. “The doctor who owned Garvagh Glebe when I was a girl. I left when I was seventeen, after passing all my accounting examinations. I went to London to work at the Kensington Savings and Loan. It was a grand time. The doctor paid for my schooling and my first year’s room and board. He paid for all our schooling. Every O’Toole held him in the highest regard.”
“What happened to him, Maeve? Is he in Ballinagar too?” I asked, bracing myself. My cup rattled against the saucer, and I set both down abruptly.
“No. When Eoin left Garvagh Glebe in 1933, the doctor left too. Neither of them ever came back, as far as I know.”
“Now, who was Eoin again?” Poor Deirdre was trying to keep up.
“My grandfather, Eoin Gallagher,” I supplied. “He was raised here, at Garvagh Glebe.”
“So you’re related to the woman in the picture!” Deirdre crowed, mystery solved.
“Yes,” I said, nodding. Closely related.
Maeve was having none of it. “But you told Kevin that Anne Smith is your name,” she insisted again.
“She’s a famous author, Maeve! Of course she has aliases.” Deirdre laughed. “I must say, though, Anne Smith isn’t terribly original.” She laughed again. When Maeve and I didn’t laugh with her, she finished her tea in a gulp, her cheeks scarlet. “I brought something for you, Anne,” she rushed. “Remember the books I mentioned to you? About the author with the same name? I thought you might like your own copies, with a little one on the way.” She flushed again. “They’re delightful, really.” She opened the big bag beside her chair.
She drew out a stack of brand-new children’s books, shiny black rectangles, each one with a little