Longing for Home: A Proper Romance

by Eden, Sarah M.

  “Would you like to come with us to town?”

  “Yes, I think I would.” The change of topic seemed welcome.

  “Then I’ll offer you a friendly warning. Those living in town tend toward the Red side of Hope Springs’ feud. They may not be very friendly.”

  “I’m not riding in to make friends, Mr. Archer. I only mean to get some few things I need.”

  He wasn’t reassured. “Like I said, Katie, only a friendly warning.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A bit of Katie’s heart ached watching Emma sit on the wagon bench beside her father as he drove toward town. The little girl longed for Mr. Archer’s company, coveted it even. She knew that feeling so well, so deeply it hurt at times.

  She herself sat in the wagon bed trying to concentrate on her duties so her mind wouldn’t wander to her past. Ivy sat in the back as well, more than content with Finbarr’s company.

  They’d been in the wagon for some time, and Finbarr hadn’t said much beyond a few quiet remarks to Ivy. Katie knew little about him, though she would have realized in an instant had she met him on the street that he was an O’Connor. He had Ian’s coloring and Tavish’s startlingly blue eyes.

  “Why is it you never come up to the house for lunch with Mr. Archer?” Though Joseph Archer was a suspicious sort who showed himself inclined to be argumentative, he seemed fair-minded. “Surely he allows you time for a noon meal.”

  Finbarr nodded. His was an absolutely natural smile, nothing in it but contentment with life. “I bring my meal from home. That’s part of our arrangement.”

  His American accent caught her by surprise. Only the slightest hint of Ireland lingered in the background of his words, nothing more than the smallest twist to an occasional phrase. He’d obviously spent most of his life in this country, perhaps all of it.

  Her first thought was how very sad that must be, not to have any memories of Ireland. But growing up amongst Erin’s green hills and valleys wasn’t Finbarr’s past. His heritage, yes, but not his personal history. Would that be the way of things twenty, fifty years down the road? The children of those forced to flee the famine in their homeland would feel no special connection to Ireland.

  Katie shook off the forlorn thought. She’d a lifetime of sorrow to be mulled over without adding a future of heartaches to it.

  “Your arrangement?” she asked.

  “I asked Mr. Archer when I first came to work for him whether I might collect a higher wage if I brought my own meal each day. Not a great deal higher, but a little.”

  “And he agreed to it?”

  Finbarr nodded. “And it’s made a difference. I’ve saved up quite a bit. Soon I’ll have enough to buy the land he’s holding for me.”

  What did he mean by that? Katie fully intended to ask him, but Ivy chose that very moment to lean dangerously over the side of the wagon. Katie reached for her, afraid she’d tumble over. Finbarr took hold of Ivy first and pulled her back.

  “I only want to see the wheels.” Ivy pouted at being pulled from her efforts.

  “And suppose you lost your footing and fell under the wagon wheels?”

  Ivy shrugged. “That’d kill me dead, I bet.”

  “It sure would. And I’d cry and cry,” Finbarr said.

  “And you wouldn’t get to marry me when I’m all grown up.” Ivy spoke quite matter-of-fact, as though their eventual marriage were a foregone conclusion.

  “Exactly.” Finbarr smoothed the girl’s hair gently and then gave one of her messy braids a light tug. “So sit down before you topple over.”

  Ivy plopped herself back down and sat with her hands and chin resting on the side of the wagon, eyes on the scenery.

  “You’re betrothed, are you?” Katie quietly asked Finbarr.

  He smiled back. “So she tells me.”

  “How old are you, Finbarr?”

  “I’ve just turned sixteen.”

  The age suited him outwardly. Yet, he held himself like one older, wiser. “Those eleven years are quite a difference between the two of you.”

  The same good-natured expression remained on his face. “By the time she’s old enough to truly be interested in the boys, I’ll seem like an old man to her.”

  “Perhaps you’ll even be married yourself.” Katie tried to picture the lad grown with a wife and family. ’Twasn’t too terribly hard to do. She simply thought of Ian, and the resemblance between them did the rest.

  “Tavish is twelve years older than I am, and he’s never married.”

  For a moment Katie felt bad for the prying she meant to do. Tavish O’Connor was a puzzle to her, one she thought on more than she ought. She wanted to understand him better.

  “Why is that, do you think?” she asked Finbarr. “Seems to me some fair colleen would have set her sights on him long since.”

  “He had a sweetheart years ago. Bridget Claire was her name. He was going to marry her.”

  Katie pushed back an unexpected, ridiculous surge of jealousy. “What happened? Did she change her mind?” That seemed unlikely. Most women would think him quite a catch. Though she wasn’t among them, she quickly added to herself.

  Finbarr shook his head. Voice lowered, he explained. “She died of the fever, the same one that claimed quite a few others.” He looked at Ivy with obvious discomfort.

  Katie thought she understood. Mr. Archer was a widower. If she had to guess, Katie would say the late Mrs. Archer had been among those claimed by that fever.

  Finbarr’s attention shifted to Ivy more fully, she having inched her way closer to standing, even as she leaned further over the side again. “As my mother often says, Ivy, ‘God is good, but don’t dance in a small boat.’”

  Katie grinned at the familiar Irish proverb. Ivy appeared less impressed.

  “I’m not in a boat.”

  Finbarr pulled her into a brotherly embrace. “The principle’s the same, dear. Don’t tempt fate.”

  He kept her entertained through the rest of their short journey into town. Ivy laughed at the silly things he said, though he spoke so quietly Katie could hardly make out his voice. He had a way with Ivy and no denying. Katie couldn’t remember ever knowing a young man his age with the patience to keep a five-year-old still and content. A remarkable lad he was, to be sure.

  Katie’s mind did not linger on Finbarr long but on his earlier words. Tavish O’Connor flirted and danced and teased like a man whole of heart and quite free of heavy burdens like those his youngest brother hinted at. Did he yet mourn Miss Claire? Or had he recovered from that loss?

  She shook off the thoughts. Tavish O’Connor’s past, present, or future had nothing at all to do with her.

  Several people called out greetings as the Archers’ wagon rolled past. Mr. Archer answered mostly with wordless waves. He pulled the wagon to a stop near the spot where the blacksmith and the mercantile stood on opposite sides of the road. Emma sat quite straight, looking like a proper young lady. Her gaze continually drifted to her father, though his attention was elsewhere.

  Ivy stood in the wagon bed, motioning rather frantically toward the smithy. She tugged on Finbarr’s hand. “I want to see the big fire.”

  Finbarr’s eyes met Katie’s. She bit back a grin at the exasperation she saw there.

  With patience she suspected was simply part of his nature, Finbarr answered, “I don’t think lingering near the blacksmith’s fire is a good idea. Remember what we said about tempting fate.”

  Ivy’s pout was monumental. Finbarr chucked her under the chin and smiled with a great deal of empathy.

  During the course of the exchange, Mr. Archer had apparently alighted from the front bench, Emma with him. He stood at the back of the wagon. “Come down, Ivy.” He held his arms out for her.

  “I want to see the fire.” She came very close to whining.

  “Not today,” Mr. Archer said. “Finbarr and I have some business to see to.”

  He set the little girl on her feet beside him. Finbarr had already hop
ped over the side. Katie made to hop down as well. Mr. Archer reached up for her, much as he had for Ivy.

  “You needn’t—”

  “It’s further down than you realize, Katie.”

  Did he think her no more capable than Ivy? “I am certain I can manage it, sir.” She set out to do just that.

  “If you insist on calling me ‘sir’ every time you’re put out with me, I will start calling you ‘Miss Macauley’ every time I feel the same way.” He speared her with a scolding look. “Now, if you would, Miss Macauley, allow me to help you down.”

  His butchering of her name, coupled with the prick her pride took at being spoken to almost as if she were a child, set her immediately against accepting his offer. “That will not be necessary. I can easily step down on my own.”

  “You can just as easily fall on your stubborn face.”

  Before Katie got out another word, Mr. Archer grabbed her about the waist and lifted her down to the ground just behind the wagon. The gesture surprised her enough to rob her of breath for a moment. He gave her a look that clearly meant he felt he’d won their short battle of wills.

  The man had no idea how drawn out a battle that could be.

  “I’ve found, Miss Macauley,” Finbarr said in all sincerity, “when Mr. Archer has his mind set on a course of action, it’s best to go along. I’ve never known him to be wrong.”

  “He’s not right about everything,” Katie replied, just loudly enough to ensure Mr. Archer heard her. He took his girls’ hands without acknowledging her remark, though she thought she saw his eyes flicker in her direction. “He’s most definitely wrong when it comes to pronouncing my name. Perhaps, Finbarr, you might see your way to teaching him how to do the thing properly.”

  Finbarr grinned. “You don’t care to be called Miss May-kuh-lee?”

  He so perfectly matched Mr. Archer’s dreaded version of her name that she couldn’t help smiling. “I do like you, Finbarr O’Connor. Very much indeed.”

  With that compliment the poor lad turned a shade of red Katie’d rarely seen on anyone. She hadn’t meant to embarrass him and took some comfort in seeing that his smile remained.

  “I’m quite fond of Finbarr, myself,” Mr. Archer said dryly, “but we are in something of a hurry.”

  Mr. Archer crossed the road, Ivy and Emma clinging to his hands. Katie followed a step behind, Finbarr next to her with his hands stuffed in his pockets, still flushed with embarrassment. Katie would have apologized if she hadn’t been entirely certain that doing so would only make matters worse.

  The front windows of the mercantile displayed goods of every imaginable kind, from foodstuffs to fabric to work tools. Katie’s eyes lingered a moment on a very pretty bonnet trimmed in shades of blue. Her only bonnet looked quite old and plain in comparison. And when contrasted with the shiny, high-laced boots she spied in yet another display, her footwear looked downright pitiful. Katie tried not to be ashamed of her appearance, yet she’d always looked like a walking testament to the existence of poverty, and she thoroughly disliked it.

  A sign sat in the window very near the display of shoes. Katie wished she knew what it said. Perhaps the mercantile was offering a fine price on boots. ’Twould be a good thing to know in case her beaten-up pair didn’t last much longer.

  “Do you read, Finbarr?” she asked quietly.

  “I do.”

  For the briefest of moments she was amazed at that. That made two Irish children in this town, from beginnings as humble as her own, who could read.

  “Would you mind telling me what the sign says just there in the window?”

  Finbarr looked uncomfortable with the request. “That sign there?”

  “I’d be greatly appreciative.”

  “It says . . .” His obvious hesitation made her wonder. “It says, ‘Hiring. Inquire within.’ And, then . . .” He cleared his throat, his eyes darting about.

  “And then what?” Finding a place of business that was openly hiring was something of a miracle.

  “It says that . . .” His face went as white as it had red a moment earlier.

  ’Twas Joseph Archer who finished for him. “It says, ‘No Irish need apply.’ And that is meant most sincerely.”

  “Oh.” She’d wager the shopkeeper had sat on the Red side of the church room the day before. “Are the Irish allowed inside at least?”

  “Yes.”

  Katie looked at Finbarr. He offered a tiny nod of agreement, though he still fidgeted in obvious discomfort.

  “Perhaps I’d best tell you my list and wait out here.”

  “Suit yourself,” Mr. Archer said. “If it sets your mind at ease, though, I have never known the Johnsons to turn away a customer. They won’t offer to be your dearest friend and are more likely than not to vaguely insult you, but they will take your business.”

  Katie pondered a moment. She’d be on her own once Mr. Archer replaced her. If she had any chance of surviving in this town, of making a living there, she needed to be able to make her own purchases.

  A chime rang as Mr. Archer opened the mercantile door. He held it, and his girls stepped inside. He watched Katie with a question in his eyes.

  “I am no coward,” she said to him, her chin held at a determined angle.

  “I never said you were.”

  Katie stepped through the door he held. The girls had already moved directly to the glass jars of sweets displayed near the counter. Mr. Archer made his way there as well, though he kept his gaze on the shop proprietor.

  “I have a list of things I need,” Mr. Archer said, pulling a paper from the pocket of his trousers and unfolding it.

  Katie hung back, away from the counter. She would see to her purchases after Mr. Archer had finished with his. The girls yet stood eyeing the sweets. Katie would likely have done the same at their age if she’d had the opportunity.

  “I have some business at the smithy,” Mr. Archer said to the man behind the counter. “Have Joshua load those things into my wagon.”

  “Certainly, Joseph.”

  If Katie didn’t already know her employer had a great deal of money, the way the shop owner scraped and bowed would have told her as much.

  Mr. Archer turned to his daughters. “Here is a penny.” He handed Emma the coin. “You can each pick a sweet for yourselves. Then sit on the bench by the door and wait, understood?”

  The girls nodded, eyes wide with anticipation as they searched the jars with renewed enthusiasm.

  “You won’t mind if I leave you here?” he asked Katie.

  “Perhaps if you gave me a penny as well, I’d fancy the idea a bit more.”

  He didn’t seem to appreciate her attempt at humor. The man was grumpy as could be.

  “I’ll be across the road at the blacksmith’s,” he said.

  She nodded. He hesitated a moment before slowly leaving. Was he so worried she couldn’t look after herself?

  Katie stepped up to the counter. She’d show Mr. Archer and Finbarr and all the others that she could handle a frosty welcome from the town merchant.

  “A very good morning to you,” she said to the proprietor.

  He didn’t reply but continued straightening cans on the shelf behind the counter.

  “I’m needing to make a purchase. Is it you I’d be talking to about that?”

  The man didn’t even look at her. He couldn’t have stood more than ten feet away. She knew he could hear because he’d spoken at length with Mr. Archer.

  The door chime sounded. The shop owner looked up from his cans, and he smiled warmly at whoever had walked inside.

  Katie glanced back. A woman stepped toward them, looking the very picture of loveliness in a soft-yellow dress trimmed in white lace two inches wide at the very least. She wouldn’t have been out of place as the lady of any of the fine houses where Katie had worked.

  “Mrs. Archibald,” the proprietor greeted, his voice smooth as velvet. “So pleased to see you.” His was an accent Katie didn’t recognize in the leas
t. The words he spoke came out long and lazy. All she could say with certainty was he didn’t hail from Ireland nor from Baltimore.

  “And you, Mr. Johnson.” The woman spoke with refinement. “Have I come at a bad time?”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “I haven’t any customers to see to.”

  Hadn’t any customers? Katie knew for sure and certain he’d heard her declare her intention of making purchases.

  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Johnson. I do believe it is my turn.”

  He looked at her for the first time. His smile remained in place, but his eyes had lost all hint of a welcome. “Patience, miss. I’ll get to you.” He turned back to Mrs. Archibald, she of the fine yellow dress. “And what brings you in today?”

  “Your wife told me you’ve received a shipment of ginghams.”

  “We have. I’ll show them to you myself.”

  They spoke so pleasantly, with no sign that they’d treated anyone poorly, despite Katie’s standing directly beside them.

  If she were to have any chance of completing her business, she’d simply have to press her point. “My order will take but a moment, Mr. Johnson,” Katie said. “And I feel I must mention again, I was here ahead of Mrs. Archibald.”

  She received another patronizing smile. “Wait your turn, I will get to you as I promised I would.”

  “But it is my turn.”

  The door chimed again. Two more women stepped inside, neither of whom looked at all familiar to Katie. She listened a moment to the chatter between them. They weren’t Irish or at least didn’t sound it.

  “I’ll be with y’all in a moment,” he said to the newest arrivals. “Just as soon as I’ve pulled out the ginghams for Mrs. Archibald.”

  He meant to leave her out completely. She’d been standing there before anyone else arrived, and he meant to skip right over her. What a maddening man! He and the preacher clearly embraced the same approach to courtesy.

  Katie stepped back up to the counter, facing Mr. Johnson head on. “Have you no desire to sell something to a paying customer?”