need to contribute.”
“You are exhausted,” Thomas said, “and Eleanor is going to worry all the way home that she’s done something wrong and displeased Brigid because she always cleans up after dinner and takes the leftovers home to her family.”
“I simply think Anne owes you a great debt that she should begin repaying as soon as possible,” Brigid shot back, her color high, her voice elevated.
“I will handle my debts and those who are indebted to me, Brigid,” Thomas said, his tone quiet but clipped. Brigid flinched, and Thomas sighed.
“First two beggars and now three?” Brigid sniffed. “Is that what we are?”
“Mother isn’t a beggar with no shame, Nana. Not anymore. She sold her earbobs. Now she’s rich,” Eoin said happily.
Brigid pushed back her chair and stood abruptly. “Come, Eoin. It’s time for a bath and bed. Say good night to the doctor.”
Eoin began to protest, though his plate was empty and had been for some time. “I want Mother to tell me about the hound of Culann,” he wheedled.
“Not tonight, Eoin,” Thomas said. “It’s been a long day. Go with your nana.”
“Good night, Doc,” Eoin said sadly. “Good night, Mother.”
“Good night, Eoin,” Thomas said.
“Good night, sweet boy,” I added, blowing him a kiss. It made him smile, and he kissed his own palm and blew it back to me, as if it was the first time he’d ever done such a thing.
“Eoin,” Brigid demanded.
He followed his grandmother from the room, his shoulders drooping and his head low.
“Go to bed, Anne,” Thomas ordered when the sound of their footsteps faded. “You’re about to fall asleep in your soup. I’ll take care of this.”
I ignored him and stood, stacking the dishes around me. “Brigid’s right. You’ve taken me in. No questions—” I began.
“No questions?” he interrupted wryly. “I’ve asked several, if I recall.”
“No demands,” I adjusted. “And when I’m not terrified, I’m incredibly grateful.”
He stood and took the plates. “I’ll do the heavy lifting. You can wash.”
We worked quietly, neither of us especially comfortable in the kitchen—though I suspected our reasons were different. I didn’t know where anything belonged, and Thomas wasn’t much help. I wondered if he’d ever washed a dish or prepared a meal.
I was surprised by the luxury—a huge icebox, a large sink, two recessed ovens, eight electric burners, and a pantry—Thomas called it a larder—the size of the dining room. The counter space was vast, each surface clean and well cared for. I already knew the home, and the comforts weren’t typical of average homes in 1920, especially in rural Ireland. I’d read Thomas’s journal entry about Garvagh Glebe, about his stepfather, about the wealth he’d inherited and the responsibility he felt because of it.
I collected all the food from the plates and put it into a bowl, afraid to throw it away. Didn’t pigs eat scraps? I knew Thomas had pigs and sheep and chickens and horses that the O’Tooles looked after. I rinsed the plates and saucers, stacking them on top of each other in one basin, unable to locate anything that resembled dish soap. Thomas cleared the dining room table, shoved the leftovers into the icebox, and put the bread and butter in the larder. I wiped off the counters, admiring the heavy wood surfaces worn and well used by hands more able than mine. I was sure Brigid would be down to check my work, but until I had some practical instruction, it was the best I could do.
“Why are you afraid?” Thomas asked quietly, watching me finish.
I turned off the water and blotted my hands dry, satisfied that we’d cleaned up enough to keep the mice away.
“You said when you’re not terrified, you’re incredibly grateful. Why are you terrified?” he pressed.
“Because everything is very . . . uncertain.”
“Brigid is afraid you will take Eoin and leave. That is why she is behaving so badly,” Thomas said.
“I won’t. I would never . . . where would I go?” I stammered.
“That depends. Where have you been?” he asked, and I pivoted away from the question he persisted in asking.
“I would never do that to Eoin, to Brigid, or to you. This is Eoin’s home,” I said.
“And you are his mother.”
I wanted to confess that I was not, that I had no claim on him beyond love. But I didn’t. To confess would be to sever my access to the only thing I cared about. So I confessed the only truth I could. “I love him so much, Thomas.”
“I know you do. If I know