Longing for Home: A Proper Romance

by Eden, Sarah M.

  “That’ll do fine. Whenever you need a roof, you just bring yourself by.”

  A feeling of peace Katie hadn’t known in three months settled over her. For once her future was not entirely mired in uncertainty. “And how much would you be wanting for rent?”

  Granny waved a dismissive hand. “None of that. We’re family now, you and I.”

  “But will you still think that a year or two from now when I’m living here for free and taking up space in your house?” Katie teased.

  The dear woman shook her head. “Perhaps in five or ten years I’ll start demanding a king’s ransom from you. But not until then.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And with you here, I suspect Tavish’ll come visiting more often,” Mrs. Claire added. “That’ll be a treat. And I’ll enjoy getting to know that handsome Joseph Archer a touch better as well.”

  “Joseph?”

  “Oh, he’ll be by, and don’t you doubt it.”

  “So you’re happy to keep me here in exchange for having handsome men hanging about the place?” Katie clicked her tongue. “Seems to me you’re just using me. Hoping to find yourself a beau of your own, you are.”

  Granny laughed, her face wrinkling happily. “I’m hoping for something else as well, if you go to that of it.”

  “What is it you’re wanting? I’d happily do anything for you.”

  “Promise you’ll sit with me now and then and speak to me of Ireland.” Such loneliness filled her eyes in that moment. Katie’s heart ached to see it. “I haven’t seen m’ homeland in twenty-five years, but you were there only two years ago. I want to remember it, to go back there in my thoughts.”

  “Of course.” Katie took her hand. “I miss Ireland myself.”

  “’Twill be a far finer winter having you here, Katie.” Her thin hand squeezed Katie’s. “I’ve spent the last four since my family died dreaming of Ireland all alone in this quiet house. I would sit here on my own and wish I could go back.”

  “We’ll both of us enjoy talking of Ireland,” Katie said, squeezing the dear woman’s hand. “’Twill be something of a journey in itself. I’ll tell you of the places I’ve lived, and you can tell me of the Ireland you knew.”

  Granny patted Katie’s cheek as lovingly as she always did Tavish’s. “’Tis glad I am that you’ll be staying with me. A comfort and a friend you’ll be.”

  The words remained with her as Katie walked back to the Archers’. Whether or not she stayed in a place or moved on had never been helpful nor important to anyone else. Being needed and wanted and useful felt good. More than good, in fact. Katie hadn’t felt so peaceful since she was a tiny child.

  That no one stood guard watching the Archer home as Katie walked back told her as nothing else could that Joseph had come in from the fields already.

  She stepped inside the house and smiled broadly at the scene that met her eyes. Ivy sat on the table, loudly explaining something to Tavish, who was sitting on a chair listening with an overwhelmed look. Joseph sat exactly opposite him, talking to Emma about a book she held in her hands. Ivy and Joseph’s voices competed to be heard over each other.

  ’Twas a lovely bit of chaos. Standing in the doorway watching it, Katie felt grateful she didn’t have to leave it behind just yet. Mrs. Claire’s home would be very quiet compared to the joyful laughter of the girls.

  Tavish noticed her standing there in the next moment. His look of pleading made her laugh, pulling everyone’s attention to her.

  “Good evening, everyone. Are you having a party and didn’t invite me?”

  Tavish leaned back in his chair. “We have been playing with dolls, Katie. You missed all the fun.”

  “You have been playing with dolls?”

  He nodded slowly and with emphasis. Apparently he’d been quite horribly tortured.

  She pulled the kitchen door closed behind her and came fully inside. “I have played dolls with Ivy myself. She is the very best of playmates.”

  Ivy smiled broadly at the praise. She was not, however, the sister who generally needed to hear it. Katie went around to the side of the table where Emma sat with her father.

  “Good evening to you, Emma.” She gave the girl’s shoulders a friendly squeeze.

  “My new book has arrived.” Emma held a leather-bound volume up for Katie to see. Lovely golden letters shone on the cover. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Very.” Katie brushed a finger along the book’s surface. “What is the book called?”

  Emma read each word slowly with the occasional stumble. “Stories of Ireland and Her Four Provinces.”

  “Stories of Ireland?” Katie was full astonished. She looked to Joseph, wondering just what had inspired such a selection.

  “Emma wished to learn more about where you come from,” Joseph explained.

  Katie gave Emma a hug. “What a sweet, sweet girl you are.” She pulled back enough to smile at her and receive a smile in return.

  “May I read them to you?”

  “I would love for you to.” Katie pressed a kiss to the top of Emma’s head.

  “No reading just now, Emma,” Joseph said. “You and Ivy need to wash up for dinner.”

  “Yes, Papa.” But Emma dragged her feet.

  “You as well, Ivy.” Joseph motioned his youngest daughter to the doorway.

  The girls left, but not without protest and slow, lingering footsteps. Joseph followed them out. He helped them wash up every night.

  Katie heard Tavish’s footsteps as he approached the spot where she stood. She did not, however, expect him to wrap his arms about her, holding her tenderly.

  “You’re very affectionate this evening.” She rested her arms on his.

  “I sat here waiting for you to return and realized how much I’ve missed you.”

  She adored hearing that. Still, she opted to tease him rather than let him know as much. “Missed me, did you? Could it be you’re feeling a bit jealous that I spent a good deal of time with your granny instead of with you?”

  A wry smile spread slowly across his face. “I am not at all jealous of that.”

  “Not jealous ‘of that’? Am I to assume you’re jealous of something else, then?” she teased.

  “I’ll not admit to any more than I already have.”

  “But you’ve not admitted to anything.”

  Tavish bent down enough to whisper, “I think I have, Sweet Katie.”

  He took one of her hands in his and, in a flourish, spun her out of his embrace. Katie nearly giggled like a schoolgirl. Tavish grinned like the mischief maker she knew him to be.

  “You’ve plenty of work to do tonight,” he said. “Why don’t you see to it, and I’ll gather up Ivy’s dolls?”

  She accepted the offer, knowing she had far too much to do, especially considering how little sleep she’d had the past few nights trying to keep up with her work and her baking, as well as worrying over her prices and her neighbors. As she began her meal preparations, she talked with him.

  “First you play with the dolls and then you willingly pick them up. I’m beginning to suspect you’re a touch too good to be true, Tavish O’Connor.”

  He winked at her as he set the dolls in a pile on the work table. “Just keep reminding yourself of that.”

  Katie set to chopping vegetables. “Have you finished harvesting your berries?”

  “Nearly. And then I’ll be spending days on end with the women of my family canning preserves.” He offered a dramatic shudder.

  Katie set a hand on one hip, pointing her chopping knife in his direction as though she’d just had a tremendous insight. “Perhaps if you’re particularly lucky, they’ll play dolls with you as well.”

  He shook his head. “You shouldn’t goad a man on that way, Katie.”

  She dumped the vegetables into a strainer and moved to the sink to rinse them. “Don’t tell me you aren’t equal to a little teasing?”

  “Oh, I favor it to be sure.” He walked slowly in her direction, ga
ze firmly set on her, his eyes capturing hers. “But, you see, m’ father has a theory, he does, about just why a woman plagues a man that way.”

  He stopped directly in front of her where she stood at the sink facing him. Her heart began pounding, her lungs tight with tension.

  “What is this theory of his?”

  “That a woman who pricks at a man does so”—he set his hands on the sink’s edge on each side of her—“because she’s begging to be kissed, and to be kissed well and good.”

  Kissed? Katie could hardly breathe, let alone anything beyond. She’d been near dying for him to properly kiss her for weeks, but he’d never done more than place a kiss on her hand or, if she were particularly lucky, on her forehead or cheek. The man was driving her out of her mind.

  “And are you a believer in this theory, as well?” The words only just came out whole.

  He nodded and leaned in closer. She could feel each of his breaths against her lips. There was no contact between them, not so much as a brushing of hands.

  Katie held herself perfectly still, both wishing for him to remain as close as he was and unnerved by his nearness.

  “But you see, Katie, I’ve another theory as well.” Each word brought his mouth achingly closer to hers. “A first kiss isn’t something that ought to be begged for. ’Tis something that comes from a place deeper than that.”

  The slightest movement would press their lips together. Yet, Katie was frozen. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move, could barely breathe.

  “And,” Tavish whispered, “that first kiss shouldn’t happen in another man’s kitchen.”

  He lingered there but a moment before stepping back. Even with the added distance, Katie felt ready to burst. For him to come so close to kissing her only to pull away again was nothing short of torture.

  Joseph returned in the next moment. She was happy to see him, as always, yet resented him being there at the same time. His gaze moved from her to Tavish before falling away all together.

  “The girls will be down in a few more moments,” he said. “I thought you might like to see this before they return.”

  He held out a letter to her.

  “For me?”

  Joseph nodded. “From a ‘Mrs. Mary Macauley’ in Belfast.”

  Katie was certain her heart stopped in that moment. “Mama.” She hadn’t heard from her mother in nearly a year, though she’d sent her new address to her parents before leaving Baltimore.

  She took the letter and brushed her fingers along the tidy letters. Katie had learned to recognize the handwriting of her parents’ priest the way one recognizes a loved one’s voice.

  Excitement warred with fear in her as it always did when a letter arrived from home. With each letter she received—there’d only been six in eighteen years—she would tell herself this letter would surely hold some words of tenderness. She would convince herself they’d written to say they loved her in spite of everything, or that she might come home even without the money to buy back the farm or place a proper headstone at Eimear’s grave. The letter she would receive would heal wounds so deep no one saw them but Katie herself.

  She told herself with each letter that she’d find in it what she so desperately needed, but it was never the case. Mother only ever wrote of her brothers, briefly mentioned that Father worked hard as always, and little else. With each letter, Katie’s heart broke all over again.

  She turned to Tavish. “Would you read it to me?”

  “Certainly.” He took the envelope from her and broke the seal.

  Katie swallowed against the thickness in her throat.

  Tavish must have sensed her sudden, painful tension. He took one of her hands in his, squeezing it a moment before unfolding the letter.

  “‘My dear Katie,’” he read, “‘I hope this letter reaches you in your new home. I’m pleased to hear you’ve found a position of such importance. To be a housekeeper is a fine thing.’”

  Katie smiled to herself. ’Twas the closest either of her parents had come to saying they were proud of her.

  Tavish kept reading. “‘I’ve some bad news, Katie.’”

  Bad news. Katie’s breath caught in her lungs. Bad news.

  “‘Your father is ill. We’ve had the doctor in, and he fears ’tis a fatal ailment.’”

  Pain stung Katie’s throat. Panic surged through her. The word fatal repeated again and again in her mind.

  “‘He’ll likely not live out the year, Katie. Your brothers mean to come and say their farewells. I don’t know if you’re able to come, but I wanted you to know so you can come if you’d like.’”

  Father is dying. He’s dying. Tears welled in her eyes as the thought repeated in her mind. She didn’t have the money she needed yet. She couldn’t give him his land. But he was dying. That meant she was too late. She couldn’t give him what she owed him. She couldn’t make amends.

  She was too late.

  “‘I wish I had better things to tell you, Katie,’” Tavish continued. “‘I wish so many things had gone differently in our lives.’ And it is signed, ‘Mother.’”

  Tavish looked up at her with such compassion in his eyes. The emotion she barely held back rushed out. Tears fell unchecked. Her breath shuddered out.

  “Katie—” He reached for her hand again, but she pulled back.

  She rose so quickly her chair toppled to the ground. She shook her head, unable and unwilling to accept what she’d heard. With a sob, she spun and ran out the back door, straight for her clump of trees.

  Her father was dying, and she might never have a chance to tell him she was sorry for all she’d done. In that moment, her very world was crashing down around her.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Father is dying. Katie pressed her hand to her mouth, trying in vain to hold back her sobs. Her father. Her papa.

  Katie couldn’t stop the memories. No amount of pulling her thoughts kept them from going directly back to that time so long ago, before their eviction, before Eimear’s death, before the loneliness of a cold floor to lie on under a table in Derry.

  William and Danny and Brennan had all left for Manchester. Each departure had kept the family from ruin. Fewer mouths to feed meant their meager provisions stretched further, leaving more money to pay their rent. ’Twas how they’d managed to survive five years of The Hunger without a death and without losing their home. No one had been condemned to the workhouse. The boys’ leaving was necessary, but in the end it wasn’t enough.

  Even at only eight years old she’d heard of the factories in the north of England. She’d heard of the enormous machines that filled wide, tall rooms. She’d known of the noise they made, of thick air that caught in the lungs, of workers growing ill and sickly.

  She knew from Brennan, the last to leave, that the smallest of children in the factories were sent inside those machines when they stopped working. The children climbed inside with tools, assigned the task of unstopping the gears so the great monsters would run again. Those who were swift could slip out again before the great cogs and wheels crushed their tiny hands and arms and bodies.

  Father sat Katie down at the start of winter the year she was eight years old to tell her he meant to send her to Manchester with her brothers. All she could think of was crawling into the belly of a dark, grinding machine, of being crushed, maimed, killed. She’d felt her lungs tighten at the thought of air so full of weaving waste that it seemed to be a fog indoors. She quaked at the picture that had long since formed in her mind of what the heartless, cold factories must have been like.

  “Please don’t send me there, Father,” she’d pleaded. “Please don’t send me.”

  “It isn’t happy this makes me,” he’d said. “And it’s no pleasure I take from sending you away. But, Katie child, if you stay, there’ll not be enough food for your sister and yourself both. There’ll not be enough money for buying more nor paying our rents. You must be thinking on that, of what must be done to help everyone.”

 
She’d begged for days on end. He told her clearly again and again that if she stayed with them in Ireland, there’d not be enough money or food for them all. The Famine had begun to wane but hadn’t yet released its grip on the country. Her family had suffered much and continued to live daily in want and a breath away from disaster.

  Katie halted her walk along the riverbank. She pushed air in and out of her lungs. Even breathing hurt. These were not easy memories. She looked over Joseph’s fields and the abundance there. Three months in Wyoming had shown her how very hard the farmers worked for their crops. The rains were few; the soil was hard. Yet, the fields were healthy.

  The sight kept her memories flowing as swift as the river she stood beside. The fields in Ireland those years ago had grown every bit as strong and lush as these, more so, even. There had been grains and crops in abundance, all of which had been harvested and gathered and shipped out of Ireland whilst the people starved to death by the millions.

  Dark times, they’d been. Dark and desperate.

  She could only just see the Archer home so far had she walked. Turning back seemed wise. ’Twouldn’t do to wander so far afield she couldn’t find her way home.

  Now why was it that thought brought a lump of sadness to her throat? Cornagillagh was still home in her heart, but so was Hope Springs. It had become home, and the people there were like family.

  “You disappoint me, Katie. You full disappoint me.” Of all the things her father had ever said to her, those were the words she heard most often in her thoughts.

  He’d spoken that reprimand as they dug about looking for any praties yet left in the ground, hoping to find some that were edible. Father had held up a potato obviously taken by the blight and reminded her again, in terms that left no room for argument, that they hadn’t food enough for all four of them.

  “You know Eimear is sickly. She was born in the midst of this Hunger, and she’s never been strong. She’ll not survive long if the food runs out, more especially without protection from the cold. Leaving home is a sacrifice for you, I know it. But you must think of her. She’ll die if you stay. She’ll die, Katie.”