“Papa? Is Holland near Ireland?”
Joseph answered Emma without pulling away from Ivy in the least. “Holland is much closer to Ireland than we are. Both countries are in Europe.”
That brought Emma’s attention back to Katie. “Have you ever been to Holland?”
Katie set aside her mending entirely. “I have only ever been to Ireland and the United States.”
“Papa has been to Ireland,” Emma said.
Katie hadn’t heard that before. “Truly?”
Though he yet held little Ivy in his arms, Joseph’s attention was on Katie. “My company does business in Belfast.”
Belfast? “When were you in Belfast?”
He gently stroked Ivy’s hair as she leaned against him, her eyes closed. “My family went several times when I was young. I was last there twelve years ago.”
Katie quickly counted backward. “I was in Belfast twelve years ago. We might’ve crossed paths.”
He smiled at her a bit. She did like his smile. It softened his entire face and sent a shivery warmth straight through her.
“I think I would have remembered you,” he said.
What a great deal of smoke that was. “A plain servant in plain clothing?”
“Plain? I don’t believe that.”
“Bless your lying tongue, Joseph Archer.” She picked up her mending again. “But fourteen was something of an awkward age for me.”
The remnant of his smile tipped. “I was twenty-one, which was an awkward age for me.”
“Now there is something I don’t believe.” She could easily see him as a young man, his light brown hair combed to utter perfection, those deep, piercing eyes of his not missing a detail, little or great.
He shifted, lifting Ivy into his arms. “I ought to take this little one up to her bed. Emma, you too.”
Emma rose but didn’t immediately follow them out of the room. She stood just in front of Katie. “I’ll tell you how the story ends.”
“I would like that, Miss Emma.”
Emma watched her unwaveringly. She held her book to herself in one arm, the other arm hanging at her side. Katie had the very real urge to reach out and touch the girl. For once, she followed the inclination. She slipped her fingers around Emma’s small hand.
“You aren’t the way I thought you would be,” Emma said.
“I’m not?”
Emma shook her head. “I thought you would be old.”
Katie smiled at that. “I thought your father would be old too.”
“And . . .” Emma hesitated. Katie lightly squeezed her little fingers, hoping to encourage her. “And I thought you would be cross, but I think now you might be nice.” Emma gave her the tiniest of smiles.
Katie returned the gesture. Emma was a sweet, sweet girl indeed. “You’d best head up to your room, Miss Emma. Your father’ll be waiting for you.”
Emma nodded and moved swiftly from the room, not looking back to where Katie watched her go. The girl kept quiet, pulled into herself, her very feelings hidden from the world. When she did venture to reach out, ’twas only with heavy hesitation and such a great deal of worry that she’d be hurt by it. Was poor Emma as lonely as Katie so often was?
She rose from the chair and walked to the fireplace. Katie had dusted the many frames and trinkets set on the mantle every day since her arrival. Some were photographs of the family and the late, beautiful Mrs. Archer. Other frames held sketches of Baltimore and of the landscape around Hope Springs. The collection told quite a story of the Archer family.
What would we have put on our mantle if we’d had one, Eimear?
Perhaps Father’s pipe might have sat there. If the mantle shelf were deep enough, they might have put his fiddle there, as well. Those two things always brought her father to mind: music and the smell of pipe tobacco.
Katie closed her eyes, thinking back. Her brothers didn’t leave behind anything when they went one by one to Manchester looking for work. There’d been nothing of them in the home but memories and longing.
Mother had a small glass bowl, given to her by her own mother. They’d never used it. Mother always feared something would happen to it, so she’d kept it put safely away. Katie remembered sitting on the dirt floor near the cupboards, looking at the beautiful glass bowl and imagining how fancy they’d all be to actually use it. She’d imagined her grandmother and what she must have been like. Katie loved that bowl. She would have put that bowl up on the mantle beside Father’s fiddle.
She would put Eimear’s doll on her mantle too, if she had one. The ragged plaything had never left Eimear’s hands, not even at the very end. Her sister died with it in her arms and was buried with it there still.
Someday, Eimear, when I’m back home again, I’ll find something of yours, something that makes me think of you, and I’ll put it out, just like this—she lightly fingered the trinkets on the Archers’ mantle—so everyone who comes around knows who you were.
Joseph came down the stairs in the very next minute. “The girls are in bed.”
Katie struggled to pull her mind to the present. Though she looked at the Archers’ treasures on their mantle, ’twas Father’s pipe and Mother’s bowl and Eimear’s doll that filled her thoughts.
“Are you unwell, Katie?”
“Forgive me.” Her voice sounded steadier than she’d expected. “I fear I’m a bit distracted this evening.”
Katie turned away from the mantle and offered a quick nod, hoping the gesture looked businesslike. Joseph watched her, his eyes seeming to take in every inch of her face.
“I know that look, Katie, and it is not one of distraction.” He took a single step closer to her, his expression changing from pondering to one of concern. “I saw that very look in the mirror for a long time after my wife died.” He spoke gently, softly. “Who are you missing?”
The question pierced her. Each beat of her heart pulsated pain in her chest. Who are you missing? She’d lost every person she cared about in one way or another those first eight years of her life. No one had truly mattered to her since.
Who was she missing? The only truthful answer was “everyone.”
She settled for a half-truth. “I simply get lonely sometimes.”
“You said this morning you haven’t been home in eighteen years. When did you last see your family?”
“Eighteen years ago.”
The answer clearly surprised him. “What? Not any of them?”
She shook her head. Her heart dropped clear to her toes as the enormity of her loneliness struck her anew.
The empathy in his expression could not be mistaken. Joseph Archer had known loss and heartache.
“I am sorry for chastising you about this earlier today,” he said. “You were right—I didn’t understand at all.”
No one understood, really. She hadn’t a soul to share her struggles with. Even those who’d lost loved ones wouldn’t understand the added pain of having been responsible for that loss. Just thinking about it brought her spirits low.
She jumped at the first change of subject that came to mind. “I wondered if I might ask you something about the bread I mean to sell.”
A bit of wariness entered his expression but not enough to be truly worrisome.
He guided her to the chair she’d sat in earlier with a light hand on her back, just the way Katie had seen distinguished gentlemen do when walking beside fine ladies. She couldn’t say if she felt flattered or terribly out of her element. One thing was certain, that brief touch had the same effect as the earlier brush of his hand along her cheek: utter bewilderment. Her thoughts flew into disarray, her insides twisting in knots of uncertainty.
Why did he affect her that way? She knew the pounding heart and swimming thoughts for what they were. He was young and attractive. She enjoyed his company when he wasn’t on his high horse. She absolutely adored the way he loved his daughters. It all pointed to one thing. Her heart had become aware of him, no matter how ill-advised such a thing was, no
matter how ridiculously misguided.
“What is your question, Katie?”
Her question? In that moment she had far too many questions even to ponder.
She pulled herself together. ’Twas hardly the time to be examining her foolish heart, though she did make a close study of him. His demeanor was entirely businesslike. No signs of attachment or deeper feeling showed in his expression. He was perhaps less gruff than he’d been those first few days, but he was hardly sick with love for her.
Katie scolded herself for even thinking it. She wouldn’t deny that she felt drawn to him. But letting that pull grow to any kind of true attachment would be foolish. He was a man of wealth and consequence. She was a servant, nothing more. A servant in his house, even. That, she decided, was the reason his kind gestures overthrew her calm so quickly.
“Katie?”
Ah, begorra. Why could she not focus the tiniest bit? “My apologies, Mr. Archer.” She couldn’t bring herself to call him Joseph again, except in her own mind. “My thoughts seem to be wandering all over without asking my permission first.”
He just shook his head and watched with his usual calm patience. No. This was not a man losing his heart to a servant.
She set her mind to the matter of her business. It seemed the town feud would explode if she didn’t find work outside of the Archer home. She had no ideas beyond her bread.
“I’m grateful to you for offering to help me plan my baking business, and I hate asking more of you, but I’ve stumbled on a difficulty I can’t think my way around.”
She’d spent the evening trying to create a watertight plan. To increase her savings for returning home, Katie had decided what she needed to do to find better paying positions, how to make what she had last so as not to spend any more than necessary. Even the trip to Wyoming had been well thought out, weighing the cost of the trip there and back against the money she expected to make. Saving enough to return home had taken a lifetime of planning. She wouldn’t approach her one chance at income in Hope Springs any less carefully.
“What is your difficulty?” Mr. Archer asked.
“Depending on cost, I can likely pay for the supplies I need. But I’ve no place to bake the bread.”
“You can bake the bread here.”
That he didn’t hesitate set her mind at ease. She’d been reluctant to ask such a thing if he weren’t entirely supportive of the idea.
“I thank you for that. I know it isn’t a very long-term answer to my troubles. Once you have a new housekeeper, I’ll be out on my own, which worries me a great deal. There are no ovens in ditches.”
He laughed at that. Katie saw no humor in it and gave him a look that told him as much.
He held up a hand. “I’m not laughing at you. I just enjoy your ‘Katie Sayings.’” His smile stayed. “‘No ovens in ditches.’ That is my favorite so far.”
“Never mind how I said it. The truth’s the same. I need a great many things if I’m to give this bread business a go. And I hadn’t realized until this afternoon just how much depends on my success.”
He gave her an apologetic look before resuming a serious demeanor. “Are you feeling pressure, Katie?”
She sighed and nodded, her shoulders slumping despite her determination to remain strong.
“I just don’t want to fail.” Too many people depended on her success. ’Twas a feeling she wasn’t accustomed to. She’d been alone for so very long.
Katie brushed a loose tendril away from her face. Her hair always gave up all efforts at control by the end of the day. ’Twas a fitting unraveling for such a flustered moment.
“I’m a little worried I’ve taken on more than I’m capable of seeing to.”
Joseph leaned forward with his arms on his knees. He looked her in the eye. “As my good friend Ian O’Connor would say, ‘Big men are not the only kind that can reap a harvest.’”
Katie felt an instant grin at the familiar Irish proverb. A smile appeared on Joseph’s face as well. He really had a lovely smile, one she’d do well not to think on too closely.
“Best be careful there, Joseph Archer. You’re beginning to sound like an Irishman.”
He shook his head. “All I have to do is say ‘Macauley’ and any actual Irishman will know the truth.”
She liked him better when he smiled; he was far less intimidating. “I’m more and more pleased you didn’t fire me a third time, Joseph.”
“And I am pleased you are calling me Joseph.”
She hadn’t realized she’d let the name slip. To her relief, he didn’t seem upset. “You prefer it even to ‘Mr. Archer’?”
He nodded slowly. “I am finding that I do.”
That put her mind at ease. She’d not need to worry about slipping on his name again. “Joseph it is, then.”
He rose abruptly, as if he’d suddenly grown uneasy. “I will see you in the morning, Katie.”
“Good night, Joseph.”
He looked back at her just once. He offered no spoken farewell but simply nodded and stepped out of sight into the stairwell.
Katie put her head in her hands. You’d best watch yourself, foolish woman. He’s not a man for you. Servants have their place and wealthy men have theirs, and the two don’t ever meet.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Katie hadn’t come to the céilí, and she wasn’t at church Sunday morning. Tavish stood in the churchyard worrying over that. He hadn’t seen her since their picnic. He thought the afternoon had gone well. But then she had essentially disappeared. That seemed like a strong argument against her enjoyment of their outing. Unless she was ill or worried. Perhaps he’d scared her off by talking of the Irish Road’s hopes for her.
Tavish stopped Joseph in the field beside the church as he approached his buggy, both his daughters walking beside him. “I didn’t see Katie at church today,” he said.
Joseph nodded. “She insists she will not set foot in a church run by a ‘raving hypocrite.’”
Tavish grinned at that. “Sounds just like something Katie would say.”
“Yes, she’s a spitfire.” There was an undeniable fondness in Joseph’s eyes.
Tavish immediately bristled, though he kept the reaction hidden. How far did that fondness go? Did Katie feel the same way?
“How is she doing as your housekeeper?” He tried to make the question sound casual, all the while watching closely.
“My house is very clean.” Joseph offered nothing beyond that. He lifted Ivy up into the buggy.
“Katie is a fine woman,” Tavish added.
“Yes, she is.”
Tavish could tell he was being sized up. And by the narrowing of Joseph’s eyes, he recognized Tavish’s intent as well. They stood, eyeing one another for several long and silent moments. Tavish had not intended to pursue Katie in the least. Now, it seemed, he had a rival.
Joseph Archer was infuriatingly difficult to read. Was it confidence that kept him so at ease? Joseph did have the advantage. Katie lived in his house. He could see her, talk to her every day. Joseph was wealthy, with the air of class and money about him. Tavish had none of those things. And though Katie had warmed to him a bit, he didn’t yet feel she’d entirely shed her wariness of him.
“Men.” Reverend Ford arrived beside them with his usual look of condescending friendliness. “A good day to you both.”
Tavish managed a half smile for the man. Sometimes he wondered how the preacher kept his position when so few in the town cared for him.
“Joseph, I noticed that housekeeper of yours didn’t come to church today.”
That housekeeper. The preacher’s tone clearly dismissed Katie as no more important than a bit of farm equipment or household goods. Tavish clamped his jaw shut to keep from letting into the man.
Emma Archer, still standing beside her father, spoke up before anyone else could. “Her name is Miss Macauley.” The little girl managed precisely the reprimanding tone the correction required.
Reverend Ford bristled a
little at being corrected by a child. Joseph lifted his daughter into the buggy without scolding her. Tavish gave her a covert wink, bringing the tiniest smile to her eyes.
“Miss Macauley does not choose to attend services?” The preacher would not be deterred.
Would Joseph repeat Katie’s exact objection to the preacher? Part of him hoped so, but the more logical part of him knew that doing so would likely cause trouble for her, and, in turn, all the Irish in Hope Springs.
“Miss Macauley is an employee in my household, not a slave or a child. How she chooses to spend her days is entirely her decision.”
“Yes, but everyone in Hope Springs attends church.” The reverend clearly found Katie’s absence inexplicable.
Another voice entered the discussion. “Perhaps she is a papist.” Mr. Johnson’s Southern drawl never failed to grate on Tavish. He had no gripe with Southerners as a rule, only with Mr. Johnson and his hostility toward his Irish neighbors.
“I had thought of that.” Reverend Ford nodded pointedly. “It would be a shame, certainly, if she did prove to be one of those Catholics.”
In a moment of horrible timing, Seamus Kelly arrived just as the preacher made that observation. “You forget that many of your faithful attendees, many who contribute to your donation plate every Sabbath, consider themselves ‘one of those Catholics.’” The look Seamus gave the preacher was nearly belligerent.
Though Seamus was generally the most cordial and friendly of fellows, his was precisely the quick-fire temper that had earned the Irish in America a reputation for being rabble-rousers. Add to that his enormous blacksmith’s build, and there was little about him that spoke of peace and calm.
Considering the real and recent warning from the Reds in town, a scuffle could easily lead to bigger problems.
“Keep calm, Seamus,” Tavish muttered under his breath. “A churchyard is not the place to start a fight.”
“I’m not the one startin’ anything.”
Mr. Johnson drawled, “Isn’t it just like the Irish to argue with a man of the cloth?”
Longing for Home: A Proper Romance Page 19
