Then Katie Macauley, who’d passed him over for Joseph Archer. She was happy in her choice, and he was glad of that. But it still stung.
Sitting there in the dark as his birthday came to a close, Tavish congratulated himself on having made a logical decision about his future. He’d focus on Finbarr and his needs. He’d keep his family whole.
And he would leave the women to see to themselves.
Chapter Two
OCTOBER 1871
Cecily Attwater sat amidst the ceaseless noise of yet another train station, trying to separate voices from train whistles, footsteps from the thud of traveling trunks. Noisy places were always the most difficult. Silhouettes moved around, the outline of a train behind them. She clung to the paper with “Archer Family” written across it. They were supposed to collect her and take her back with them to the town of Hope Springs, where her newest student lived.
No matter how many times she traveled to an unfamiliar place and navigated her way through a new group of people, no matter how often she started over, it never grew easy. But she loved her work. She helped people and improved lives. And each job’s salary aided her in the work dearest to her heart: creating a library for the blind.
She never knew how her pupils would receive her. Some, like the sweet little girl she’d worked with in Lincoln, were eager to learn new skills and adapt to their circumstances. Others, like the crotchety old man in Omaha, were too angry at the world to learn anything without a great deal of arguing.
Finbarr O’Connor. She repeated the name in her mind. This newest student was, from the sound of things, Irish. That worried her a bit. The Irish were, in her experience, often stubborn and difficult. She hoped, for his sake, he’d directed at least a portion of his Irish bullheadedness toward the task of learning to function in the world as a blind man. But the necessity of her presence indicated otherwise.
A silhouette approached her. The midday sun provided enough light for her to know that the stranger was a woman, though not a terribly tall one. She wore a broad-brimmed bonnet and a dress of either blue or purple, though how vibrant, Cecily couldn’t say. Even in the brightest of lights, colors remained muted.
“Forgive me,” the woman said. “I couldn’t help but notice your sign.”
An Irishwoman. This stranger was likely connected to Cecily’s newest job.
“Is it the Archer family you’d be looking for?” the Irishwoman asked.
“Yes. Would you happen to be Mrs. Archer?”
“That’s myself. I’m looking for Cecil Attwater. Are you holding this sign for him, then?”
Cecil Attwater? Good heavens. “My name is Cecily Attwater, but yes, I am quite certain I am the person for whom you are looking.”
“You’ve been hired to tutor Finbarr O’Connor?” the woman pressed.
“I have.”
The woman turned her head away, looking at the person standing behind her, a man, judging by the size and shape. He must have given Mrs. Archer some kind of reply, because she looked at Cecily once more. “It seems we confused our instructions a bit, Miss...?” She pulled the word out long like a question.
Cecily nodded.
“. . . Miss Attwater,” the woman said. “We’ll be taking you on to Hope Springs, unless you’ve something you need to do here first.”
“I have no further business here.” Cecily had placed her traveling trunk directly to her right and her basket of foodstuffs beneath the bench. She set her hand on the trunk. “This one is mine.”
The man stepped forward and lifted her trunk.
“Miss Attwater,” the woman said, “this is my husband, Joseph Archer.”
Cecily dipped her head a bit. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Archer. I was instructed to obtain two days’ worth of food for the journey to Hope Springs. I have that here.”
She hunched down, reaching for her basket. She could just make out its shape in the dimness below the bench. By the time Cecily was standing fully upright two children in short dresses had joined the couple.
“Good morning,” she greeted, looking down in their direction. She’d found people were less unnerved if she at least appeared to see everything they did. Her slightly darkened spectacles gave the illusion of focusing on people she couldn’t entirely see, as well as hiding the odd milkiness of her eyes.
“This is Emma and Ivy,” Mrs. Archer said.
“It is a pleasure to meet you both.”
“You talk strange,” a child’s voice said. “Where are you from?”
“Ivy,” Mrs. Archer reprimanded.
Cecily knew her manner of speaking sounded odd to American ears. “I am from England,” she said. “Everyone there speaks as oddly as I do.”
“Oh.” Ivy seemed to take that as a very thorough explanation.
“We’d best be on our way,” Mr. Archer said. “The day’s getting away from us, and we have a great deal of ground to cover.”
Mr. Archer spoke with the refined accent Cecily had often heard in the eastern cities of the United States, but not at all since coming West. The Eastern accent was as close as anyone ever came to sounding like home. The farther west she traveled, the more she missed hearing those almost-familiar strains.
Cecily followed the family away from the depot, careful not to allow anyone to come between her and her escorts. Even in full sunlight, she would never be able to distinguish them from the crowd should any degree of distance separate them.
They wove through the crowds, past the smells of freshly baked bread and savory meats wafting from the depot restaurant, then out to the yard behind the station, where Cecily became instantly aware of the smell of horses. She could make out the wagons, some piled high with crates and barrels. Amongst the great many horses were nearly as many people moving about. Crowded places always created an overwhelming cacophony of sounds and smells. For a person dependent on those clues to make sense of the world, the experience was not a calming one.
“Would you be offended, Miss Attwater, if you are required to ride in the wagon bed?” Mr. Archer asked.
“Not in the least. I am weary enough, in fact, that I will likely simply lie down and fall asleep.”
Mr. Archer lifted her trunk into the back of his wagon then helped his daughters into the wagon bed. Next, he stretched out his hand to help her into the wagon as well. Had he done so at dawn or dusk or, worse yet, in the dark of night, she wouldn’t have seen his offer of assistance. She had a great deal of practice stepping up on the hub of wagon wheels and could manage the thing with very careful effort.
She was quickly situated in a snug spot in the wagon bed, her back pressed against a crate, her feet stretched in front of her. The two little girls sat nearby, whispering to one another. Her hearing had grown necessarily acute over the years, and she could make out their words, though she wasn’t purposely listening. The girls weren’t quite sure what to make of their strange traveling companion, most especially her green-hued spectacles. Cecily could appreciate that; she knew she made a rather odd picture.
The lurch of the wagon, and then the rumble of the wheels under her, signaled the beginning of their journey. The outline of buildings passed one at a time, and, slowly, the sounds of the bustling town faded away. Blessed, blessed silence. Tension eased from her shoulders. She could hear the clomp of hooves clearly enough to know that there were two horses. The little girls shifted around nearby.
As the day wore on, she listened to the family’s conversations but kept more or less to herself. They were a loving family; that much was certain. They also clearly had a unique history. The little girls called Mrs. Archer “Katie,” which likely meant she was not the girls’ mother. Mr. Archer spoke to his wife with unmistakable kindness and caring, and the girls obviously adored her. Whatever the exact dynamics of the Archer family, they had precisely the affectionate closeness Cecily longed for. Her parents had both been gone for several years. She had no brothers or sisters. Though she always grew very fond of her students, in
the end, her job required that she leave them.
She was very much alone in the world.
The world grew darker as they traveled. Fewer and fewer sights were discernible. Slowly, everything faded into blackness, though Cecily knew that the world itself had not yet been plunged into the full darkness of night. It was amazing how deeply one missed the light when one could see so little of it.
The wagon came to a stop, and everyone disembarked. Mr. Archer soon had a good fire going. Cecily kept near it, grateful for what little light it provided. In the dim and dancing shadows, she prepared her meal. Thank the heavens her father had seen fit to send her to school as her sight worsened. She wouldn’t have known how to do much for herself otherwise. With her training, she functioned very nearly as well as any fully-sighted person.
Cecily sat on a blanket laid out within comfortable distance of the fire, her plate of food balancing precariously on her lap. The younger of the Archer girls, Ivy, quite unexpectedly came and sat beside her.
“Is England close to Ireland?” the little one asked.
“It is very close to Ireland. The two are neighbors, in fact.”
Ivy inched closer. “We were in Ireland.”
Though Mrs. Archer was clearly Irish, the little girls sounded as American as their father. “Were you there recently?”
Mr. Archer answered. They all sat near enough each other for their various conversations to be overheard by the rest of their small party. “We are just now returning home from our journey to Ireland and Baltimore.”
“We were visiting our families.” Mrs. Archer sat beside her husband, which made looking in her direction less of a guess.
“Did you enjoy returning home?”
A pause. “’Twas an important thing to have done.” Mrs. Archer’s response was not at all what Cecily had expected.
Father had longed to return to England, as had many of the English friends they’d had in America. And she’d often heard immigrants from other countries express the same longing. Did Mrs. Archer not feel the homeward pull?
“Everything was green,” little Ivy said.
Cecily did not see colors very well anymore. She missed green most of all. Though England was not quite as green as the Emerald Isle, it was still the color she most closely associated with her childhood in England, the color of summer, of laughter, of happier times.
How well she remembered green. The feeling of it, at least.
“What did you enjoy most about Ireland?” she asked her tiny companion.
“Uncle Brennan,” she said. “He is so funny.” Ivy giggled, probably remembering a few moments with her uncle.
Cecily took a bite of her honey-drizzled drop scone. They traveled well; she’d eaten many over the years.
“What did you enjoy the most, Emma?” Mr. Archer asked.
“The music.” Emma wasn’t as loud nor as lively as her sister. “I loved the music.”
Ivy hopped up and hurried away toward Mr. and Mrs. Archer. “Play for us, Katie,” she said. “Please. Please, please, please.”
“Would you, Katie?” Mr. Archer asked.
“Only if the girls agree to lie down while they listen. The night’s growing late.”
Emma and Ivy settled in for the night as Mrs. Archer retrieved and tuned her violin. By the time Cecily finished her meal, the music had begun. Something in the sound was hesitant, as though Mrs. Archer had not been playing for very long, or the songs she’d chosen weren’t entirely familiar. Still, the music was soothing and heartfelt, with the plaintive sound so common to the music of Ireland, a sound that somehow spoke simultaneously of sorrow and hope.
In the silence between tunes, Cecily could hear the little ones’ breathing grow slower. Cecily’s eyelids were growing heavy. Though Mrs. Archer’s playing lacked polish, it held such feeling. That emotion, that connection, wove a spell.
In time, there was no more rustling of blankets, no more whispered but eager song requests. All was still. Mrs. Archer stopped playing, leaving an incomplete sort of peace, as though the silence held life’s worries at bay only momentarily.
No one spoke as Mrs. Archer put her instrument away. The click of the violin case melded with the pops and snaps of the fire, the only sounds in the darkness.
Then Mrs. Archer spoke again. “Miss Attwater, I’d not wanted to say anything while the girls were awake, but I’m wondering if the O’Connors realize—That is, since they made no mention of your being—”
“A woman?” Cecily guessed. The Archers, after all, had been expecting a Mr. Cecil Attwater.
“Well, that, yes. Unless I misunderstood, they’re under the impression you’re a man.”
“I imagine that will be straightened out quickly enough.” But Cecily sensed there was more. “What else has you worried?”
“The O’Connors are Irish,” Mrs. Archer said.
Cecily nodded. “I guessed as much.”
“But do the O’Connors realize you’re English? Your country-men and ours haven’t had the most pleasant history between us.”
That was most certainly true. “But does that mean that here, in this new country, far from the site of our past difficulties, we who were not part of those struggles must continue in animosity toward one another?”
Mrs. Archer answered firmly. “Those you are about to meet were part of those struggles. They’ve very real, very personal complaints against the English.”
“And they will hold that against me?”
“I cannot say with any certainty that they won’t.” To her credit, Mrs. Archer sounded genuinely sorry about the possibility of difficulties between Cecily and her pupil’s family. “The past decades have not been good ones for the Irish. Add to that many centuries of hatred between our people, and we’ve quite a chasm separatin’ us.”
Hatred. The word hung heavy between them. These people she’d come to help may hate her from the first word out of her mouth.
Little else was said over the remainder of the night, and when someone did speak, the topics were light, skirting around what Mrs. Archer had spoken of. But her words were precisely where Cecily’s mind remained. She’d more than once endured a less-than-enthusiastic reception from her pupils and their families. The very necessity of her services was often met with resentment. But never before had she arrived for a job already hated simply because of her birthplace.
She’d realized right off that her student was Irish but hadn’t held that against him. Would the O’Connors be willing to do the same?
Centuries of hatred.
Centuries.
That did not bode well at all.
Chapter Three
Tavish stood on his front porch as Joseph Archer pulled his buggy to a stop in front of the house. Katie sat up alongside him—Katie, whom Tavish had once courted and cared for and dreamed of making a life with. Though he did his best to push her from his mind, he still thought about her now and then, and what might’ve been.
Watching her arrival, he couldn’t deny that she looked happy. She always looked happy with Joseph. That was something of a consolation. Katie was happy, as she’d always deserved to be. He was glad of that; it eased his own regrets a bit.
In the very next moment, Biddy, his sister-in-law, rushed out of the house and straight for Katie, who’d only just been handed down by her husband.
Her husband. In time, he’d grow used to thinking of things in those terms. In the meantime, ’twas inarguably odd.
He pulled his thoughts away from his distraction. This gathering was not about him or Katie. It was about Mr. Attwater, whom they’d brought with them—and about Finbarr’s future. Having a tutor would ease Da and Ma’s burdens. The rest of the family worried for Finbarr as well. This step would help everyone.
Katie reached the porch. “Tavish O’Connor.” She gave him one of her once-rare smiles. “How are you, then?”
“Well, Katie. I’m well.” ’Twas the most he could say for himself. Life had been difficult these past months.
Apparently satisfied, she continued into the house. Joseph approached next. He shook Tavish’s hand. A great deal of the tension that had existed between them before Joseph and Katie’s marriage yet remained. Tavish had tried to make clear his intentions to not interfere or make trouble between them. Katie had made her decision, and he meant to be happy for her and Joseph both.
“How was your journey?” Tavish asked.
“Fine,” Joseph answered.
“Did you find Mr. Attwater at the station?” ’Twas best to keep to safe topics.
“Not exactly.”
They’d not found the tutor? Everything depended on Mr. Attwater.
For the first time, Tavish noticed the woman standing near Joseph. Golden curls, a natural touch of color in her cheeks, a rosebud mouth, a trim figure. She was breathtaking, even with the odd, green-tinted spectacles. How had he not spotted her immediately?
“Tavish, this is Finbarr’s new tutor, Miss Cecily Attwater.”
“Cecily Attwater? Miss?”
“Indeed.” Ever the refined gentleman, Joseph completed the introductions. “Miss Attwater, this is Tavish O’Connor.”
She turned and faced him. “Are you a relative of the young man I’ve come to tutor?”
At the sound of her voice, he grew instantly still. Miss Attwater was English. English. The situation was growing more complicated by the moment. Still, he knew how to be welcoming. A soft smile or two generally smoothed over even the most unpleasant of situations, and few things were as unpleasant as the English and Irish being forced to interact.
He tucked away his discomfort. “I’m Finbarr’s older brother. He lives here with me.”
“I would like to meet him,” Miss Attwater said.
“Come inside,” Tavish said. “The entire family’s waiting to meet you.” And won’t they be surprised? “But I’ll make no promises regarding Finbarr. He’ll likely as not remain in his alcove at the back of the house.”
Love Remains Page 2