Longing for Home (5 page)

He took up his pitchfork again and set himself to the task of mucking out the stall he’d been working on when Miss Macauley arrived. He’d gone to the station a week earlier to fetch her, but she hadn’t been on any train in the twenty-four hours he’d waited. Five days he’d spent in getting there, waiting, and getting back. He believed the story she’d told about missing one train and its ruining her schedule. The fair part of his brain knew he couldn’t hold that against her, but he still felt frustration bubbling deep inside. Nothing about hiring this new housekeeper had gone as it should.

As he flung dirty straw into the waiting wheelbarrow, his mind churned over the aggravation of it all. His late wife would have known all the questions to ask. She would have found the perfect housekeeper. He had managed to hire himself a sharp-tongued, demanding, stern-faced bundle of difficulty. The passage of nearly four years had lessened a great deal of his pain over Vivian’s death, but in moments like this, he missed her acutely. Their marriage had not been perfect but neither had life without her.

He led his black gelding back into its newly cleaned stall, speaking to it reassuringly. A little attention and some affectionate rubbing of its nose and the animal seemed to forgive him for the disruption to its otherwise peaceful afternoon.

“I have made a mess of things, Copperfield.” He hung a bucket of oats on its peg inside the stall. “There’s a woman in my kitchen. A young Irish woman, with a tongue capable of filleting a man with little effort. But one I cannot, in good conscience, send off.” He pushed out a weary breath. “I have a feeling I should prepare for a disaster.”

Copperfield whinnied appreciatively as he swallowed a mouthful of oats.

Joseph smiled a bit at that. “I know. She’ll feed us edible food for the first time in half a year. That is definitely worth something.”

Especially when he reminded himself how hard his daughters worked to eat the food he cooked for them. Further, they’d taken to sleeping in the tiny corners of their beds that weren’t piled high with toys and clothes awaiting washing. The house was a mess. Their meals were a disaster.

Miss Macauley would have to stay. The girls needed her. He would put up with a great many things for his girls’ sake.

He pushed the wheelbarrow from the barn and out to the dump pile. A storm was brewing overhead. He watched the dark, churning clouds. They would be pounded with rain, he was absolutely certain.

What was taking Ian so long?

Joseph wanted his girls home before the storm broke. Little Ivy’s health wasn’t always good, and a thorough wetting might lead to lung inflammation.

A gust of wind snapped the open barn door back and forth, pulling his eyes in that direction. Miss Macauley had left her battered traveling bag and violin case there.

Joseph grabbed her belongings and made his way to the house. It seemed as good an excuse as any to check on his new housekeeper. He hesitated a moment on the porch before shaking his head at himself. This was
his
house. Why should he second-guess his decision to go inside? He’d never done so with the last housekeeper.

He turned the knob and gave the door a push, his hands full. The wind did the rest of the work for him, flinging the door completely open. Miss Macauley stood near the stove, a startled expression on her face as she looked at him. Leaves and dust blew in as the wind rustled loose tendrils of hair in her face. In that unguarded moment, she looked almost approachable, not at all like the shrew she’d seemed out in the yard.

“You left these by the barn.” He held up the carpetbag and fiddle case.

“Thank you, sir.”

He inwardly cringed at hearing himself addressed that way. The servants who had worked in his home during the years he was growing up had scraped and bowed and sirred his father through nearly every waking moment. Father required their subservience as his due. Mother kept them in line with threats of dismissal and looks of haughty superiority. His distaste for such palpable class distinctions was one of the things that had driven him west.

Still, he’d argued with his new housekeeper enough that day. He could let a sir or two pass without comment.

He closed the door and crossed the kitchen, setting her things beside the door in the wall opposite the stove, the door to her bedroom. He looked back at Miss Macauley. She stood in front of the stove, watching it with her hands on her hips. The stove sat cold, nothing being prepared there as far as he could see.

“Are you having difficulties with the stove?” He moved toward her.

She shook her head. “I hadn’t lit it yet is all.”

“But you do know how?” It would be just his luck to have hired a woman who couldn’t even light the stove.

“Of course.” Miss Macauley pulled her dignity around her and looked down her nose at him. “I’ve worked as a servant nearly all my life. I believe you’ll find me quite competent in all areas of household management, sir.”

There was that sir again. “Let’s begin there, shall we?” He heard the annoyance in his voice. It likely showed in his eyes as well.

She looked instantly wary. They were not making a very good beginning.

“I would rather not be called sir,” he said. “Especially not at the end of every single sentence. Mr. Archer or Joseph will be fine.” He gave her a final nod for emphasis, then made his way to the kitchen window. The girls weren’t home yet.

“I will remember that, Mr. Archer.” Miss Macauley spoke from her position near the stove. “And I would ask you to call me Katie, as I far prefer that to Miss Macauley.”

“If that is what you want.” His gaze remained on the window. He hoped she would set herself to cleaning it soon. The grime had doubled many times over since he’d last had a moment to scrub the glass.

Miss Macauley didn’t sound as though she were seeing to the meal. A glance in her direction confirmed that. The stove still wasn’t lit.

“Were you planning to cook dinner?” Surely she understood that was a basic requirement of her employment.

“You were expecting to eat, then?”

He gave her an uncertain look. “Yes.” The word emerged like a question.

“And this is something you’ll be wanting on a regular basis, is it?”

Her sarcastic tone spoke volumes. He had offended her. “I did not intend to question your competency.”

Miss Macauley—no, Katie; she preferred Katie—gave a brief nod, as if acknowledging he had ceded an argument to her. Yes, this new housekeeper of his was going to be difficult.

“I’ll see to your meal, Mr. Archer, just as soon as I’ve found enough clean dishes.”

He looked briefly toward the window, not liking the increase he heard in the wind. Where was Ian? Of course, at the rate Katie was going, the stove would still be cold and the girls would go hungry.

“Would it speed things along if I lit the stove?”

She held her chin at that defiant angle she continually assumed. Perhaps he should have made “an accommodating disposition” one of his requirements for the job.

“I will light the stove,” she said crisply. “I am certain you have plenty of your own chores to see to.”

Her professional pride might take a bit of a beating, but he fully intended to see that his daughters were fed. Despite her look of surprised displeasure, he took the box of matches from the shelf.

“Sir.”

He looked back at her even as he hunched down beside the stove. “I do not answer to sir.”

She watched him closely as he lit the match, brow creased deeply, mouth set in a tight line. Did she think he wasn’t capable of lighting a stove? He couldn’t cook worth anything, but he could certainly manage a fire.

“I thank you for seeing to that, Mr. Archer.” Her tight tone told him clearly that his efforts grated on her and she thanked him only because she felt she must.

He stood and faced her. “I know how irritating it can be to have someone looking over your shoulder while you work. I’ll leave you alone while you see to your tasks.”

A bit of the defensiveness left her posture and snapping eyes. She even managed the tiniest, fleeting hint of a smile. Maybe that would be the key to a peaceful coexistence. He would simply avoid her whenever possible.

“Thank you, Mr. Archer. I’m a little nervous about my first day, I suppose. Things didn’t begin well.”

“I know.” He could give her that much. “I’ll just be out on the back porch if you can’t find something or need anything.”

She nodded and turned back to the pile of potatoes and carrots and such she’d set on a hastily cleared corner of the table.

Joseph walked to the back door. He opened it, letting the storm in once more. Heavy drops of rain joined the burst of wind. The temperature had dropped. They’d be under a deluge soon.

“Come on, Ian,” he muttered as he closed the door behind him. “Get my girls home while you still can.”

Time crawled as he stood waiting. He never could be easy while Emma and Ivy were away. He liked having them nearby where he could see they were healthy and happy. He needed them there.

How would Katie treat the girls? He had envisioned their new housekeeper as something of a grandmother or at the very least a matronly aunt, someone who would adore them and give them the tender affection they both needed so much. Katie didn’t seem the type.

He couldn’t very well fire her for being less cheerful than he’d expected. They’d have to make the best of things. So long as she didn’t mistreat the girls, they could get along.

From out of sight came the sound of hooves and wheels splashing through the gathering puddles. Joseph leaned out into the rain. The silhouette of an approaching wagon. That would be the girls. At last.

The wagon pulled into the yard directly in front of the barn. He stepped out into the rain to meet it. Ian tipped his hat. Joseph returned the silent greeting with a quick nod of his head.

“Quickly, girls,” he called up to the wagon bed. “You’re soaked through.”

Emma reached down for him first. He lowered her to the ground. Tiny Ivy came next. Even for five years old, she was very small. Joseph hugged her to him and rushed toward the porch, quickly catching up to Emma.

The sounds of Ian’s wagon pulling back out could barely be heard over the increasingly heavy rain. Thank the heavens the girls had reached home before the full downpour.

He opened the kitchen door and pushed the girls inside, thankful for the warmth radiating from the stove. Katie stood at the stove, stirring something in the steaming pot and watching their entrance.

Joseph watched her as well. How would she treat Emma and Ivy? What if she was as stern and snappish with them as she’d been with him? He wouldn’t put up with it, she would quickly discover.

He set Ivy on her feet beside Emma, who clung close to his side. They were both dripping from their ride in the rain.

“There’s a fire in the stove, girls. Stand near it and warm up.”

Neither girl moved at all. They watched Katie with obvious uncertainty. Katie didn’t look any more at ease than they did.

“This is Miss Katie Macauley. She will be looking after the house and the meals.”

“And looking after us, Papa?” Emma asked.

Surprise touched Katie’s expression, though Joseph wasn’t sure just what struck her as odd. Why could he not have found a housekeeper who was as uncomplicated and contented as Mrs. Jones had been?

Joseph pulled his thoughts back enough to answer Emma’s question. “Yes. She’ll be looking after the two of you.”

At that, Katie turned back to her pot, a look of unhappy contemplation on her face. He braced himself, knowing almost instinctively that the situation was about to go from bad to worse.

Chapter Five

Katie’s lungs froze in shock. These were his very own children. None of Mr. Archer’s telegrams had mentioned that. Not a one. Katie would have remembered. Indeed, she had been struck by the fact that he didn’t have children. She’d considered herself fortunate for finding a position that didn’t involve children. An absolute miracle, she’d told herself. His lack of children was the primary reason she’d expected him to be stooped and elderly.

Had she known children were part of the bargain, she would never have applied for the position. She would have told the housekeeper in Baltimore to stop reading immediately and tear the telegram into tiny pieces. Had children been even hinted at, Katie would never have come.

She could clean a house, milk a cow, throw together a meal in a trice, even cross an unfamiliar continent on her own. But tending children was another matter entirely. The last time she’d been placed in charge of a child, that child hadn’t lived to see morning.

Katie looked from one girl to the other, her mind frantically trying to determine what to do. The littler one held her attention longest. She couldn’t have been more than five years old, the age her sister, Eimear, had been when she died. This girl even had brown eyes and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. ’Twas like looking into her own past directly at a face she’d spent eighteen years trying to forget.

Something had to be done.

“’Twill be a moment before your dinner is ready, Mr. Archer. Might I jaw a piece with you while you’re waiting?”