Longing for Home (26 page)

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?”

“Are you calling me a heathen?” Seamus growled.

Reverend Ford stepped between the men, holding up his hands in a show of peacemaking. “Certainly we can get along with one another on the Lord’s Day.”

Mr. Johnson’s smug satisfaction would push even a saint to brawling. Tavish couldn’t blame Seamus for wanting to belt him. Tavish himself had wished it many times over in the years since Johnson’s arrival. But it was hardly the time or place.

Tavish stayed close to Seamus’s side, keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard. Seamus wouldn’t take kindly to being corrected in front of his nemesis. “Be the bigger man, Seamus, and just let this go. The Reverend’s objection to Catholics is known to us all. You can’t start a new fight over old news.”

“Who’s saying this grudge isn’t a new one?” Seamus’s eyes narrowed as he glared down the merchant. “They made it new when they threatened our Miss Katie.”

Mr. Johnson tsked loudly. “That is the look of an Irishman itching for a fight.” He shook his head, a condescending smile turning his lips. “Isn’t that just their way?”

Bob Archibald arrived in just that moment, taking a strategic position beside Jeremiah Johnson. Now the fat was truly in the fire. If Seamus didn’t step down, there’d be a full-fledged brawl.

Tavish locked eyes with his fellow Irishman, hoping an unspoken message would pass between them.
Don’t let them prick at you,
he silently told the man.

Something of Tavish’s words and look must have penetrated Seamus’s thick skull and fiery temper. His posture relaxed a bit.

Then Bob Archibald opened his fat mouth and nearly undid it all. “So, Joseph, I see you kept that Irish girl of yours at home where she belongs and not here making trouble.”

Seamus’s mouth drew into an argumentative line. A few others from the Irish Road who stood near enough to hear took on angry expressions of their own. Tavish himself felt a burning need to turn around and pound Archibald into the ground.
That Irish girl of yours.
He spoke of Katie as though she were a child or a slave, one who belonged to someone the way an animal might.

He kept his hands unclenched only with a great deal of effort. His eyes shot to Joseph Archer. If the man didn’t say something in Katie’s defense, he would, and he knew himself well enough not to trust he’d say it entirely with words.

Joseph kept calm as ever, not the least ruffled nor bothered by their difficulties. He stood leaning against the side of his buggy, casual and unconcerned. “Miss Macauley,” he said, “works in my home, nothing else. What she chooses to do with her Sunday mornings is her decision to make and hers alone.”

Johnson flicked an invisible bit of dust from the collar of his suit coat. “Seems to me we discussed the general dissatisfaction with that arrangement.”

All eyes, and there were a great many gathered around, both Irish and Red Road, turned to Joseph. ’Twas not the first time his loyalties had been questioned, nor was it likely to be the last. Joseph pulled away from his buggy enough to stand at his full height. Nothing in his expression changed from his usual look of casual detachment.

“I can’t imagine any of my neighbors would wish me to go without a housekeeper while waiting for my new one to arrive.”

“So you don’t mean to keep her on?” Seamus asked.

Tavish knew the looks of concern on the Irish faces for what they were. If Joseph was bending to pressure from the Red Road, they would lose their most important ally. Their
only
ally, truth be told.

“I mean to do what is best for the running of my household. Now, if all of you insist on beating each other to a pulp, I would hope that, out of consideration for Reverend Ford, you will choose to do so away from the churchyard.”

How Joseph Archer managed to bring looks of guilt and discomfort to the faces of the crowd with no more criticism than those words held and without the slightest change of his own expression, Tavish didn’t know.

A murmur of consent wove its way through the crowd, though the more hotheaded on both sides didn’t disperse. Tavish caught Ian’s eye as he worked to convince the Irish gathered around to be on their way. Lance Goodwin appeared to be doing the same amongst the Reds. How long before the few voices of reason were not enough? They’d be back to fighting in the streets.

Tavish stepped to where Joseph was climbing into his buggy. The man was the only one with enough influence on both sides to put a stop to it all.

“You mean to ride off, then, with the arguing still going on?”

He didn’t look at all ashamed. “This is not my fight, Tavish.”

“So long as you’re living here, it’s your fight.”

Joseph shook his head. The man was so mule-headed. He could keep the peace if he chose to. He could cool tempers. But he only ever did so
after
things were out of control.