“We were so happy when we realized.” Biddy rubbed at her own arms. Katie wished she’d brought shawls or something as a shield against the constant wind. “We lost a little one to the fever all those years ago, a sweet little girl, in age between Michael and Mary. There’s been such an emptiness in the home since then. Not that this babe will ever take little Fíona’s place, but we were so happy at the thought of another.”
“And that’s changed?”
Biddy began walking again, something like pacing but all in the same direction. “Mary’s shoes are falling to bits. Michael’s outgrown his coat. Ian has a very long and difficult time ahead of him. And I have a wee babe inside depending on me. There’ll not be any extra money coming in this year. We’ll be fortunate if we can purchase the seed we need for next year and make our payment on the land.”
“Surely Joseph would give you more time to pay him.” She knew for certain he would—had heard him say as much, in fact.
But Biddy was already shaking her head. “I cannot ask him to do that.”
“But he would.”
“Too much depends on his control over the farms here. Undermining that would put us all at risk.”
Katie walked with Biddy a while longer, grateful when she saw some calm return to her expression. She was understandably exhausted and overwhelmed, but talking of her worries seemed to have helped. Katie only wished she could do more.
She didn’t know how much Ian and Biddy’s payment was on their land. Perhaps she had enough in her savings to make it for them, or part of it at least. But would they even accept her help? She knew enough of Irish stubbornness to doubt it very much. And what would she live on if she spent every penny she had? She and Granny Claire would be in dire straits without money. Neither of them had paying jobs. Katie’s baking hardly covered its own costs. How many others on the Irish Road were looking ahead with fear?
She didn’t sleep much that night. Too many heavy questions weighed on her. She lay on her bedtick, staring into the darkness.
What am I to do, Eimear? she asked her long-dead sister. There’d never been anyone else to listen to her worries over the years. But Eimear never had answers for her, and, in that moment, she needed an answer badly.
“How do I stop a greedy and hateful man from robbing his neighbors?” She whispered the question into the night.
It was late and the night was very cold. Otherwise, Katie would have slipped outside with her fiddle, letting the music clear her thoughts. Playing inside was out of the question with Granny sleeping so nearby. She closed her eyes and quietly hummed. “The Dear Irish Boy.” “Abigail in Breitamain.” She had hummed twice through “Éamonn a’ Chnuic” when an answer began to formulate in her mind.
It started as little more than a breeze of memory, a conversation she couldn’t quite recall. She’d spoken to Joseph about Mr. Johnson and his prices. He’d managed to talk the merchant down from a price increase by loaning him money.
Katie sat up, searching her mind for the rest of it. Weariness and worry slowed her thoughts.
“I needed the flour price to remain the same,” Joseph had said, “so I discovered something Johnson needed just as much.”
That was the key. If she could trade on something Mr. Johnson needed—more than he needed to put the Irish in their place, to punish them for existing—she might convince him to bring the prices back to where they’d been and to not raise any others over the winter.
But what did he need? What could a man with an entire mercantile at his disposal possibly need?
The words came clear and precise.
Help wanted.
Mr. Johnson needed an employee. Based on the look of his shop, he needed someone to straighten and organize and clean. He needed a housekeeper for his shop. A housekeeper.
Katie’s heart lodged firmly in her throat. She knew perfectly well how the rest of that sign read: “No Irish need apply.”
But if she could somehow convince him to take her, then she would have income, beyond the mere pennies she brought in with her bread. Perhaps she’d have enough to support herself and Granny, and then she could use her savings to help Ian and Biddy.
But what of the rest of the Irish? She didn’t have enough money for them all.
Think, Katie. The answer is there somewhere.
She stood up and walked to the small bedroom window. ’Twas a clear enough night to see the stars. She watched them sparkle above her.
He needs a housekeeper. You have more experience at that than anyone.
But you’re Irish.
Jeremiah Johnson would no sooner pay an Irishwoman a salary than he would dance a bare-skinned jig in a rainstorm.
He will never pay an Irishwoman a salary.
She took a gasping breath, a thought dropping fully formed into her mind. He wouldn’t pay her to work for him, but he might be willing to trade: her labor in exchange for lowering the Irish prices to where they had been.
Could she really do it? He would be a horrible person to work for. Every day would likely be miserable. And she’d be making no money. Not a single cent.
But if she didn’t at least try, the Irish would be driven out one by one. She’d lose this new home she’d chosen for herself. Her plan might very well fall to pieces. But she had to try. She wasn’t ready to give up yet.
Chapter Ten
Granny Claire opted to spend Friday keeping company with Mrs. O’Connor, they being good friends despite their age difference. Katie couldn’t imagine anyone not being instantly charmed by the sweet old woman.
With Granny gone for the day, Katie had her first opportunity to go to town and approach Mr. Johnson with her idea. She felt certain any of her Irish neighbors would argue against her efforts if they knew what she was up to. She was unsure enough of her plan that she might just be talked out of trying.
If only she were still living at Joseph’s house. She could have spoken to him about it over breakfast. He always listened, and he was smart about these kind of things. She could sort out even the most complicated of worries by talking through them with him. But she was on her own now. Her problems were hers alone.
Town was quiet, but not empty. Having witnesses about might very well ruin Katie’s chances. She stepped into the mercantile, but kept to the back wall, waiting until Mr. Johnson finished with his customer. The shop appeared to be in greater disarray than it had been during her last visit just over a week earlier. Perhaps Mr. Johnson was feeling a bit frustrated. That might help her cause.
Dusting. Organizing displays. A good waxing of the floors. Katie mentally listed the various jobs needing done. Straighten and coordinate the bolts of fabric. Sweep up the bits of spilled flour. Wash the windows.
Only one customer stood inside, Matthew Scott from down the Irish Road. His farm sat just past Granny Claire’s.
“No sugar, then, this time.” His voice held an edge of forced acceptance. “Just the flour.”
“Wool?” Mrs. Johnson was at the counter alongside her husband, which was unusual.
Mr. Scott shook his head. “Not this time.”
The answer seemed to surprise and confuse Mrs. Johnson. “But it’s nearing winter,” she pointed out. “You cannot underestimate the value of a good coat when the weather turns.”
Mr. Scott held his chin at a proud angle. “I know its value well enough, as does your husband, it would seem. He further knows why you’re not selling much wool lately.”
Mr. Johnson dropped a heavy bag of flour in front of Mr. Scott.
Mr. Scott slapped a handful of coins on the counter, the clanging echoing in the uncomfortable silence. He took the bag of flour under his arm and left without further comment.
“How high have you raised the prices, Jeremiah?” Mrs. Johnson asked under her breath. “They’ve always bought goods before, even at the higher cost.”
“They’ll buy,” he said stubbornly. “Eventually they’ll be cold and hungry enough to buy.”
“And if they don’t
?”
“Then they’ll leave or starve. Either way, it’ll take care of the problem.”
His venom struck at Katie’s resolve. How could any person speak so coldly of another person’s suffering, their possible demise, even? Convincing him to even appear merciful would be an uphill struggle, and no denying it.
She put firmly in her mind Joseph Archer’s manner of dealing with her during that first day she’d worked for him. He’d shown nothing but resolve and businesslike logic. She’d struggled to find any way of arguing with him. That was exactly how she needed to approach the Johnsons.
Katie stepped up to the counter, her shoulders back and her posture unbending. “Good morning, Mr. Johnson, Mrs. Johnson.”
“Another one,” Mr. Johnson muttered. “What do you want?”
“I want a word with you, if you must know.”
“I don’t have time for—”
Katie spoke right over him, as if they were equals. “If you’re losing sales the likes of what I just saw with Mr. Scott, I’d wager you don’t have time not to listen. I’ve come with a business idea that I think will bring your profits back up.”
“My profits are just fine.”
“I’ve my suspicions that’s not so true as you’re letting on. You’ve a pile of unsold shoes so high it’s gone and toppled over. There’s dust on your bolts of wool. There’s dust on most everything, in fact.”
Mr. Johnson’s eyes narrowed, and not in a ponderous way. She was pricking him where it was most tender.
“I’ve no formal training in such things,” Katie admitted with only the slightest, momentary dip of her head, “but I do think you’ve put your prices out of the reach of those who would buy these things. Wanting or not wanting them isn’t a consideration any longer. There’s simply no money.”
“I’ll not have some Irish filth coming up out of the ditches to tell me how to run my business.”
Katie kept her dignity ahead of her like a shield. Half the town was depending on her, whether they knew it or not.
“If you lowered the Irish prices to where they were before—which is still considerably higher than the Red Road prices, I’ll point out—your sales would likely return to normal.”
Mrs. Johnson actually seemed to be listening to her argument. Perhaps if she proceeded carefully, she might convince the woman to help talk her husband around.
“If you are asking me to show mercy to a bunch of lazy heathens—”
“I know too much of you to try any such thing,” Katie said. “I’m not speaking of mercy or pity. I’m talking about a trade—a business trade.”
That got his attention, though he only barely let her see as much.
“What kind of trade?” Mrs. Johnson asked.
“Hush, Carol,” Mr. Johnson ground out.
Katie ignored him and continued with her point. “You’ve a sign in your window advertising a position. That sign’s been hanging there for all the months I’ve lived in Hope Springs. Now, if you’d be honest with yourself, you’d admit that if no one’s come forward yet in three months or more, no one will.”
Neither of the Johnsons responded, though both were watching her closely.
“As near as I can tell, you’re needing someone to straighten and dust and clean, perhaps organize displays, wash windows, wax the floor.”
Mrs. Johnson gave several small nods of her head. Mr. Johnson’s complexion grew a touch splotchy, as though he fought down a hint of embarrassment at the obvious state of his place of business. Katie was careful to keep any hint of accusation or disapproval from her tone. She remembered the inarguable logic of Joseph’s reasoning that first day. She could mimic that tone, to a degree at least.
“I’ve worked as a household servant since I was eight years old. All I’ve done these past eighteen years and more is straighten and dust and clean. I’ve organized pantries and cupboards and linen closets. I’ve even waxed floors and kept windows clear as a lake on a cloudless day. You’ll not find a soul anywhere in Hope Springs, perhaps anywhere in all of Wyoming Territory, who can do the job you need faster or better than I can.”
Mr. Johnson’s splotchiness gave way to full-faced redness. “I’m not hiring Irish.” He spat the final word.
Katie was unmoved. “I’m not speaking of hiring, nor salaries, nor true employment in the sense you’re thinking. I’m speaking of a trade.”
Mrs. Johnson spoke first. “What kind of trade?”
“Hush, woman.”
Mrs. Johnson held up a hand. “No, I want to hear what she has to say. I will not be able to do my work around here until well after this child arrives. We need someone to see to it.”
“But she is Irish.”
Mrs. Johnson looked her husband dead in the eye. “She is also the only person in four months to ask about the job. The only one, Jeremiah.”
He muttered something under his breath and paced away from the counter. Mrs. Johnson looked at Katie, and with an almost regal nod of her head, indicated Katie should continue. ’Twas very much like the superior gestures she’d so often received from the ladies of the houses where she’d worked for so many years. Oddly enough, it put Katie at ease. Here was a give-and-take she understood.
“I am offering to do your sweeping and straightening and cleaning, at least a few days a week, in exchange for returning everything to the prices they were before.”
“The Irish price?” Mrs. Johnson asked.
Katie nodded. “You’ll not be losing any profit over what you made before. And, in exchange for returning your prices to normal, you’d get that job filled you’ve been advertising for these many weeks. You’d win on both counts.”
Mrs. Johnson appeared to mull that over. “It would be very nice to have the position filled, but it would mean having an Irishwoman working here. I cannot say that would be looked well on by everyone. Some would be upset, in fact.”
Clearly Mr. Johnson was among that number.
“I understand.” Katie let some of her defiant posture soften. “But I wouldn’t be at the counter, wouldn’t interact with any customers. I work quickly and quietly. I’d keep out of the way. Other than looking out over a neat and tidy shop, you’d hardly even know I was here.”
“Except I’ll have to listen to that ridiculous accent of yours, hearing the way you butcher the English language.” Mr. Johnson still hadn’t returned to the counter.
Katie wanted to argue that the heavy influence of the American South in his voice made his words sound odd to her ears, but she opted to keep her mouth shut and simply let him think.
A Red Road customer came inside. Katie melted back, doing her best to simply blend in. She could show the Johnsons just how invisible she could truly be. The customer, whom Katie didn’t recognize, dug through the pile of shoes, toppling it in a few places. Mr. Johnson moved to help pick up the pairs that tumbled to the ground. Mrs. Johnson watched from behind the counter, a look of ponderous concern on her face.
When the customer repeatedly had to wipe dust from her fingertips after touching a tabletop or display, both Johnsons grew noticeably flustered. Katie couldn’t have hoped for better timing.
Please let this work out. Please.
Mrs. Flannigan came in during the dust difficulties. She held a small change purse in her hands and asked Mrs. Johnson about the price of sugar. When, after checking with her husband, Mrs. Johnson quoted the recently raised price, Mrs. Flannigan left without making a purchase. Katie’s heart broke to see it, even as a small flicker of hope grew inside.
She stood silent and still, waiting for the Johnsons to think through what she’d said and what they’d just seen.
The shop was empty for a full five minutes before Mr. Johnson, behind the counter once more, turned toward her. He pointed a menacing finger directly at her.
“Be here by six in the morning, every morning. You’ll work until noon.”
Katie nodded. She’d originally imagined three full days, not every single morning. But the look of di
sappointment on Mrs. Flannigan’s face and the tears in Biddy’s voice earlier that week, decided it for her.
“And,” Mr. Johnson added with a flash in his eyes, “you’ll keep your mouth shut while you’re working here. I don’t want to hear any ’twas or ’tis or any of your Irish words.”
She almost answered with a “Yes, Mr. Johnson,” but thought better of it. If he wanted silence, he’d have it.
“And—”
“Jeremiah.” Katie thought Mrs. Johnson’s tone was promising. She at least was making a minimal effort to put an end to Mr. Johnson’s demands.
Mr. Johnson kept right on at it. “I don’t want you near the customers or talking to them. You keep out of the way. Give me one lick of trouble and this trade of ours is off. Understand?”
Katie nodded firmly.
Mr. Johnson slammed his ledger book on the counter, taking up his pen. “Now get to work.” His gaze dropped to his account book.
Katie was torn between grinning in triumph and sinking with the enormity of the troubles she’d just invited. Mr. Johnson would be a difficult employer. If past experience was any indication, she’d likely be insulted and belittled again and again. But it would be worth it.
Chapter Eleven
Joseph bit back a few tense words, working at being patient with his girls. They were both trying very hard to help with dinner but were only making things worse. They’d attempted to make pancakes, but after four eggs dropped to the floor, followed by nearly an entire pitcher of milk and a good amount of flour, Joseph had opted for something with fewer steps and, thus, fewer opportunities for disaster. But fried eggs had proven just as unsuccessful. If Hope Springs had even one restaurant, he’d have thrown in the towel and driven the girls into town.
Emma and Ivy were both on their hands and knees wiping up the mess with towels. He’d likely be paying Harriet Kester extra this week for laundering. If only Katie could have stayed until the new housekeeper came. Disaster after disaster had plagued the house since she left.
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