Longing for Home: A Proper Romance

by Eden, Sarah M.

  Katie smoothed the front of her dress and made her way to the parlor. The girls wore nearly identical dresses of lavender, white ribbons tied high on their waists. The most delicate of slippers encased their tiny feet. They might easily have been angels if not for their hair resembling two light brown bird’s nests.

  Mr. Archer stood with a comb in one hand and several white ribbons in the other, eyeing the girls with the look of one about to undertake a horribly distasteful task.

  “You look quite lovely in your fine dresses, girls.”

  Katie smiled at the children. Ivy smiled back. Emma ignored her altogether.

  “Katie.” Mr. Archer sounded oddly pleased to see her. “Excellent timing.”

  She couldn’t begin to imagine what he meant by that.

  “The girls need their hair combed for church. Would you, please?”

  “Comb their hair?” Had the man lost his mind? “You’ll remember, Mr. Archer, tending to the girls does not fall to me.”

  He moved closer, an urgency in his face that seemed extreme considering they were only speaking of hair. “Biddy combs their hair during the week, but she is not here. I try every Sunday, and it never looks any better than this. They generally are both in tears by the time we’re done, and I find myself cursing in a way unfit for children’s ears. I would greatly appreciate your help.”

  He had lowered his voice, though Katie felt certain the girls could hear.

  She spoke under her breath as well, mindful of nearby ears. “I have never combed a child’s hair in all my life.”

  “You comb your own,” he replied.

  She folded her arms across her chest and eyed him. “You comb your own.”

  “My hair doesn’t tie itself into impossible knots that nothing can undo short of a sharp pair of scissors.”

  With that declaration, chaos broke out in the room. The girls pleaded with their father, teary-eyed, not to cut their hair. They pulled on his arms, faces turned up to him in absolute panic. No matter that he assured them he wouldn’t actually cut their hair, the girls would not be soothed.

  “Please, Katie,” he said over the noise.

  That turned the littlest one’s attention to her. She didn’t speak, didn’t plead. She simply looked at Katie with enormous, hopeful eyes. The poor child was convinced her father was moments from cutting off all her hair and that Katie was the only person who could possibly stop him. How could any person not feel affected by such a sight?

  She could see to the girls’ hair. It wasn’t as though their father was leaving her solely in charge of them. Their well-being wasn’t on the line. Katie could trust herself with that.

  She held her hand out for Mr. Archer’s comb.

  “Bless you,” he whispered.

  His sincere gratitude touched her unexpectedly. A warmth grew inside, and it flustered her a moment. She covered her confusion by moving to the sofa and only looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

  Mr. Archer dropped into a seat near the empty fireplace, relief and weariness etched into his features. ’Twas likely a hard thing for a man to raise two little girls on his own. No wonder, then, that he’d been willing to send off a housekeeper for lacking the ability to look after them. She felt an unexpected bit of urgency at that thought, a wish to help him even a little bit.

  She set herself to the task of combing the girls’ hair, opting to begin with the oldest, the one she felt more comfortable with.

  “What are you wishing to do with your hair, Miss Emma?”

  Katie’s question noticeably surprised the girl. Likely she expected to have no say in the arrangement of her hair. She answered warily. “Mary’s mother always makes two long braids.”

  Katie nodded. “Is that what you’re wanting today? Or would you care for something new?”

  She had Emma’s full attention then. For once the girl didn’t overflow with dislike. “I don’t know about doing anything new. Papa might not approve.”

  Katie glanced at Mr. Archer. She hadn’t thought to ask if he had rules regarding his daughters’ appearance. He silently waved her on.

  “We’ll not do anything too grand,” Katie assured her. “We’d not wish to distract anyone from their worshipping.”

  Emma nodded solemnly.

  “We’ll try something new. If you find it too much or you just don’t fancy it, there’ll still be time and plenty to make two braids and get to church on time. What say you?”

  Emma looked downright eager despite herself. Katie could clearly see a war waging in the girl’s eyes. No doubt her determination to dislike the new housekeeper stood at odds with her interest in a pretty hairstyle. Katie could appreciate the struggle. She herself knew it best to keep a distance from the family she worked for, being but a servant and one whose employment was only temporary. Yet, these two little girls tugged at her heart more than she cared to admit.

  Katie instructed Emma to sit herself down on the floor in front of the sofa. Ivy had climbed on her father’s lap, obviously quite content with the arrangement. A fine picture the two of them made. Ivy so obviously loved him, and he, in turn, treated her with great tenderness.

  Slowly Katie worked the knots out of Emma’s hair, being careful not to pull any more than was absolutely necessary. Knotted hair could be terribly painful.

  Ivy prattled on about everything under the sky, from the cow in “Mary’s papa’s barn” to the peppermint sticks at the town mercantile. Her father listened without comment and without showing even a hint of boredom. Katie found herself fighting down a grin of amusement at his awe-inspiring self-control.

  Two long, neat braids were soon formed on either side of Emma’s head, falling directly over her ears and down in front of her shoulders.

  Emma broke her minutes-long silence. “This is the same as always, just more in the front.”

  “Right you are, Miss Emma. The trick comes next, you see.”

  Katie took one braid and pulled the end back up to the beginning, making a single loop that fell just below Emma’s ear. She tied one of the white ribbons Mr. Archer had given her around the very top in a neat bow. She repeated the step on the other side.

  “Go see what you think,” she told Emma.

  How hard Emma tried to appear uncaring even as she moved directly to the mirror just around the corner in the entryway. Katie followed. She far preferred seeing Emma’s first impression rather than trust the unreadable mask she’d likely put on afterward.

  “Will it do, do you think?” Katie asked.

  “I think so.” Emma looked up at her, and Katie could see she was nervous. “Will Papa like it?”

  Katie suspected Mr. Archer would be grateful for anything he didn’t personally have to do with his daughter’s hair. “That is a question best asked of him.”

  Emma nodded solemnly and stepped back in the parlor. Katie watched her cross the room to where Mr. Archer sat. “Katie made me a new hairstyle.”

  “And she did a fine job,” Mr. Archer said.

  An almost painful longing entered Emma’s eyes. “Do you think it’s pretty?”

  The reluctant hope Katie heard in the girl’s voice struck deep in her heart. She knew that sound, knew the desperation behind it. She’d felt it herself nearly all her life. The child longed for her father’s approval and love. ’Twas a heavy burden to carry in such a little heart.

  “You are very pretty,” Mr. Archer said.

  Emma’s expression warmed.

  Mr. Archer mussed Ivy’s still unkempt hair and looked across at Katie. “And do you mean to work the same miracle with this one’s wild locks?”

  Emma’s face fell with her father’s suggestion. Her little shoulders drooped.

  “Actually,” Katie said, “I think Miss Emma’s style is so perfectly suited to her that we’d best name it Miss Emma’s Sunday Hairstyle and reserve it special just for her.”

  Though he looked momentarily surprised, Mr. Archer followed Katie’s lead. “You are absolutely right. No one could wea
r this style quite as well as Emma does.”

  In the next moment Emma’s face transformed from the solemn expression she usually wore into a tentative smile. Katie couldn’t remember having seen Emma smile once in the days she’d been there. She wondered in that moment if any father truly understood how deeply his opinion of his daughter mattered.

  She liked her gruff and grumpy employer more in that moment, seeing him love his daughter the way he did. She liked him quite a bit more, in fact.

  Mr. Archer’s attention shifted to Katie. She fully expected to see something of approval in his face at having successfully tamed Emma’s hair and the moment of happiness that had brought the little girl. Instead, his brow furrowed even as his lips pressed into a tight line. The man didn’t look happy in the least.

  Now what have I done?

  “I need to go hitch the team to the buggy.” He lifted Ivy from his lap and set her on her feet.

  “Can I watch, Papa?” Emma asked. “I’ll sit quite still and be careful of my dress.”

  Mr. Archer waved his oldest daughter in front of him and followed her through the door to the dining room. His steps echoed hard and determined.

  “Sit here a moment, Miss Ivy.” Katie motioned to the spot of floor Emma had occupied a bit earlier. “I’ll be back directly.”

  Katie moved swiftly, following the path Mr. Archer had only just taken. When one’s employer is so obviously put out with something, ’tis best to mend the trouble quickly.

  “Mr. Archer? Might I have a brief word with you?” Chasing after him for a brief word had become something of a routine of hers.

  He turned back. Tension remained in the faint lines around his mouth.

  Katie stepped out onto the porch, crossing closer to him. Emma stood by the buggy, far enough distant to not overhear.

  “Have I done something to upset you, Mr. Archer? You seem cross with me, and I can’t determine just why.”

  “I’m not cross with you.”

  “You seem it.”

  He pushed out a breath. Katie thought she heard frustration in the sound. “I am not cross with you.”

  “Who else could it be? You’re not ever cross with the girls.”

  He leaned his forearm against the nearby porch post, his hand in a fist. His gaze had left her, though not an ounce of his tension had fled.

  “Sir?”

  “With myself, if you must know.”

  Katie couldn’t imagine why. “Over what?”

  He glanced at her for a fleeting moment. “Are you always this nosey?”

  “Forgive me. I hadn’t meant to pry.” She stepped back a bit, reminding herself of the wisdom in not irritating the one who paid her salary. “If you’re upset and I’ve played any part in that, I am sorry.”

  “It is nothing you have done.” He tapped rapidly on the porch post. “I am sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that Emma doesn’t smile. She’s not . . . She’s not a happy child.” The words seemed to stick in his throat as he spoke. “But she smiled just now, truly smiled, over something as simple as a new hairstyle.”

  “But why would that upset you?”

  He pulled back from the post, his posture nearly rigid. “Because I don’t know how to do that. I finally found something that makes my unhappy child happy, and it isn’t even something I can do for her. Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to want something so badly and know you can’t possibly have it? Do you have any idea?”

  Katie’s lungs tightened painfully. Had she any idea, he asked. His impossible wishes were nothing compared to hers. He wanted to make his daughter smile—that could be accomplished. Katie needed her sister’s forgiveness. But the dead don’t speak, and they don’t forgive. She needed her father’s love and approval, but what man could love one who cost him his home and the life of his tiny child?

  “A great many people long for things they cannot have, sir,” she whispered.

  He didn’t seem to find any comfort in her words. She hadn’t expected him to. Mr. Archer stepped off the porch toward the buggy. Emma’s longing gaze followed his every move. Could he not see that his daughter near worshipped him? She was a serious girl, to be sure, but at least in the company of her father, Emma didn’t seem as unhappy as he feared.

  “No, Mr. Archer,” Katie silently said, “your wishes aren’t impossible at all.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The church in Hope Springs sat at the end of the only road running through the town itself. Nothing stood behind the building, leaving ample room for buggies and wagons and horses. Someone had thought to erect hitching posts for just that purpose—several rows of them, in fact.

  The arriving churchgoers kicked up a great deal of dust as they turned in the large field beside the church. Everything was dust and wind and dryness in Wyoming. How in the world did people farm in such a place?

  A few of those making their way toward the modest church building looked familiar to Katie from the céilí the night before. Most she’d never before seen. What surprised her was the sheer number. Everyone living nearby must have come to services that morning. She looked back and forth from the rows of wagons to the building and began to wonder just how all the people who’d come would manage to fit inside.

  Mr. Archer and the girls had already alighted, and Katie made to do the same. She slid to the side of her back seat and began to lower herself carefully down. Before she could make even the slightest progress, Mr. Archer held out a hand as if meaning for her to take it. A moment passed. She’d not expected the gesture nor knew quite how to respond to his offer of help. No employer, no man of means for that matter, had ever handed her down from a buggy.

  Though she’d prefer to be left to herself, Katie opted not to make a scene over it. Mr. Archer had not shown himself the most patient of men. Refusing his offer of common courtesy would likely only shift his frustration to her. Katie set her hand in his as she negotiated the long distance to solid ground.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said. That look of scolding reminder entered his eyes once more, and Katie realized her mistake. “Mr. Archer,” she corrected herself.

  “I was a little short with you earlier, at the house,” he said, the apology almost grumbled. Was he so unaccustomed to apologies, or only apologies offered to servants? “You don’t deserve to have your head bitten off simply because I am realizing my limitations as a father.”

  “You say that as if you’re a failure as a father.”

  “You would rather I lie?”

  He truly believed himself a failure? “Your girls have a roof over their head and food on their table, and you haven’t sold them into servitude. I’d say you’re doing quite well.”

  “‘Sold them into servitude?’” He looked almost as though he meant to smile. Apparently Mr. Archer thought she’d thrown that in as humorous exaggeration.

  Katie cast her eyes about the crowd, hoping he’d think her attention had wandered. She didn’t want to pursue the topic of fathers and the ways they might rid themselves of unwanted children. Her history and her secrets were hers alone. She’d not lay her soul bare for anyone.

  Emma waved to another young girl as they approached the church building. “Hello, Marianne,” she greeted quickly and quietly.

  Little Marianne smiled back, obviously happy to see her friend.

  Katie followed a step or two behind the family as they all made their way inside the church. She wasn’t truly part of the family, and she hadn’t a friend nearby to walk in with as Emma seemingly did.

  A single aisle ran down the middle of the room, rows of pews on either side with space between the far ends of the benches and the windows on the side walls. Two doors sat on either side of the back wall with a single, long bench situated between them. ’Twas not the room itself that so surprised her, however, but the arrangement of the people inside.

  The pews had already filled, with people standing by the windows. Those sitting on the right side of the room all wore something in a shade of green. The c
olor adorned the ladies’ hats, dresses, and shawls. The men’s vests, shirts and, in a few cases, even their trousers were green. A person couldn’t help but notice the pattern. The very same could be said of the left side of the room, except the color of choice was red. Katie looked from one side to the other. Nearly to a person, they wore their side’s chosen color.

  Katie saw many faces from the céilí but only on the right.

  She understood then. The Irish sat to the right. Those who disliked the Irish sat to the left. So where, she wondered, did Mr. Archer sit, he who declared he had no part in it? She found him on the back pew, the only place in the room that could be declared neither right nor left. Suddenly the girls’ lavender dresses became more than a pretty color for young girls to wear. They were neither red nor green. Katie was immediately grateful for the blue of her own dress.

  In a flash of near panic, she realized the room had grown quiet and all heads seemed turned in her direction. She received smiles from the green side, curious looks from the red. A man, in the somber black of a clergyman, walked down the aisle from the front of the chapel toward Katie.

  He smiled a very little and dipped his head a bit. “Good morning. I am Reverend Ford. You must be new in town.”

  “Aye. That I must be, indeed.”

  An audible gasp—one Katie thought a touch dramatic—emanated from the reds. The greens grinned with a great deal of triumph and enthusiasm. Her accent had obviously given away her origins.

  The preacher’s smile froze. “Well,” he said as one intent on making the best of an unpleasant situation. “It is tradition to introduce new members of the congregation.” He motioned toward the front.

  “You mean for me to stand up there? Before all these people?”

  He nodded patiently.

  Katie didn’t wish to make waves any more than she wanted to make a spectacle of herself. Neither did she wish to stand before them all in her threadbare cuffs and work-worn boots. “I suppose there’s no avoiding it.”