Hope Springs (19 page)

And he accuses the Irish of being drunken layabouts.

Katie shook her head at the ridiculousness of it all. She’d leave Mr. Johnson to his pitiful state.

She looked one last time at him, committing his position to memory so she’d have something to think back on when he was insulting and belittling her. Remembering this moment would do wonders for her pride.

There was something dark on his hand cupping his head. She looked a little closer.

Good heavens. It looks like blood.

Katie knelt near enough to him to get a better look. It was blood indeed.

“Sir? Have you hurt yourself?”

“Get away from me,” he growled, swatting gracelessly in her general direction with his clean hand.

“You have blood running out your fingers, Mr. Johnson.” It wasn’t exactly a flood of bleeding but enough to be worrisome. “Have you cut your hand?”

“You—” He pointed a finger in her direction, though it wove around quite a bit. “You left something out. You left it out, and I tripped on it. It’s your fault.”

Absolutely nothing was lying about on the floor other than him. He more likely than not had tripped over his own drunken feet. Wasn’t that just like a Red in Hope Springs—aye, like so many in America who were determined to blame their every problem on the immigrants from Ireland?

“I’ll just leave you to your bleeding and drinking, then,” she said and stood up. “A fine combination, that.”

Katie set her chin at a proud angle and pulled back her shoulders. For once she was not the one at a disadvantage. The man was likely too soaked to remember the moment come morning, but she’d enjoy it while it lasted.

“Miserable foreigners, all of you.” He pulled his blood-covered hand from his face for the first time, shaking his fist at her.

Katie felt her eyes widen in shock. A wide, gaping cut marred his forehead, blood trickling from it. The man was truly hurt, and it appeared to be no small thing. She snatched a rag from the basket where she kept the clean ones.

“Sir.” She retook her position, kneeling on the floor in front of him. “Press this to your wound, sir.”

Either he was in a great deal of pain or he’d rattled his brain, because he obeyed her instructions without comment. Katie took a good look at his state. She wasn’t at all easy with what she saw. He’d clearly been bleeding a lot, the front of his shirt splattered by it, his hand and arm covered in trickles. His coloring was pale to the point of worry. He had most likely hit his head on the countertop, an unforgiving and thick bit of solid wood. It would have dealt him a severe blow indeed. Perhaps it was not only the alcohol slurring his words and wreaking havoc on his movements.

Blood hadn’t yet seeped through the rag, a good sign he wasn’t about to bleed to death there on the floor. Still, she’d seen the cut and knew it was nothing to be ignored.

“I’ll be back directly, sir.”

He muttered words she couldn’t make out.

She moved swiftly to the door that connected the shop to the Johnsons’ home behind the mercantile. Mr. Johnson needed care, but Katie couldn’t be certain her assistance would be welcomed. She couldn’t simply leave him there.

“Mrs. Johnson, ma’am?” she called out. “Mrs. Johnson?”

She looked back at her employer. He still sat with his back against the cupboards, rag pressed to his bleeding head.

“Mrs. Johnson?” she tried again, louder.

The woman, moving slow with the weight of her wee one growing inside, stepped into the sitting room from the room beyond. “What is it?” Hers was not a patient expression.

“Your husband’s fallen, ma’am. His head’s bleeding a great deal, and I’m worried for him.”

She’d not finished her explanation before Mrs. Johnson rushed toward the shop. Katie followed close on her heels.

Mrs. Johnson gasped, her hand pressed to her heart. “Dear heavens. All that blood.”

It was an alarming sight now that Katie truly looked. Why was it wounds on the head always bled so very much?

“Jeremiah.” Mrs. Johnson sat next to him. “Let me see your head.”

She pulled back her husband’s hand. The underside of the rag had turned a bright red. Mr. Johnson’s wound looked worse than it had before.

Mrs. Johnson’s eyes fluttered shut a moment. She made the tiniest of whimpering moans.

“Ma’am, are you unwell?”

She shook her head. “Blood tends to make my head spin a bit, is all.”

“Do you need smelling salts? I know where they are.”

“No. I’ll be fine.”

Katie looked closely at Mr. Johnson’s cut. He glared at her, but she ignored it. His wife wasn’t holding up and he needed attention. She was all he had.

The cut was quite wide. “This may need stitching up.”

Mrs. Johnson’s whimper was her only answer.

Katie fetched a new rag and traded it for the bloodstained one, instructing Mr. Johnson to press it against his cut again. She scooted across the floor until she was positioned next to Mrs. Johnson. The woman hadn’t always been kind to her, but Katie couldn’t bear the look of worried pain on her face.

“Mrs. Johnson?”

She looked at her, a reluctant pleading in her eyes. She seemed to know how much she and her husband needed Katie, though she disliked the needing very much indeed.

“I can see to the stitching, if it’d help. But I don’t think the floor of the mercantile is the best place for sewing up wounds.”

Mrs. Johnson’s face cleared. She adopted a look of purpose and rose to her feet. “Let me lock up the shop so we won’t have any interruptions.”

A moment later, she’d returned.

“Between the two of us,” Katie said, “I think we could get him to the house. We’d best set him on a sofa or a bed or wherever would be easiest for you to look after him the rest of the day.”

Mrs. Johnson’s brows pulled in, her eyes looking off in the distance. “I think the sofa in the sitting room would be best, then I needn’t climb the stairs more often than need be.”

“That’ll do, ma’am.”

Mr. Johnson’s eyes were scrunched tight. He hadn’t lodged a single complaint about Katie talking too much nor insulted her heritage since before his wife arrived. She knew from experience Mrs. Johnson’s presence didn’t generally make him more civil. She’d wager pain was the silencer this time around.

Together Katie and Mrs. Johnson managed to help him to the sitting room sofa. He was aware and strong enough to keep the rag pressed to his wound as his wife slipped a pillow beneath his head and eased him back.

“Have you a sewing kit?” Katie asked.

Mrs. Johnson fluttered about a bit before pulling herself to her purpose. She retrieved a sewing kit from beside a chair near the front window.

“And a bit of good strong soap?”

Mrs. Johnson nodded and set the sewing kit in Katie’s hands. She made her way as quickly as her swollen middle would allow. Katie pulled a tasseled ottoman over next to the sofa and sat.

“Are you planning to poke me with pins?” Mr. Johnson grumbled. “Torture me while I’m already suffering?”

“That, sir, is not the Irish way of doing things.” She pulled out a spool of thick black thread and the sharpest needle she could find. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, drinking yourself into a stupor doesn’t strike me as
your
way of doing things.”

He looked annoyed. “It’s been a difficult day,” he muttered.

Katie snipped the thread into just the right length for sewing a few knots in the man’s forehead. ’Twas an odd task to be preparing for.

“Was the day difficult before you burst your head wide open, or mostly afterwards?” She threaded the needle and set it on the highly polished end table, laying out the other lengths of thread next to it.

Mr. Johnson examined his bloody rag. With a deep and shaky sigh, he pressed it back to his head. Katie could almost feel sorry for the man.

“Today is my brother’s birthday.” His words were still slurring badly.

And that was reason to get drunk as a wheelbarrow? Perhaps it was a tradition in the South where he came from.

Mrs. Johnson returned with a cake of soap and a fine blue-and-white porcelain washbowl. “I have a teakettle heating on the stove,” she said. “I’ll fill the bowl just as soon as the water is hot.”

Mrs. Johnson glanced uneasily at her husband. Her eyes lingered on his wounded forehead. She took a deep breath in through her nose. “I am sorry. I am not usually this overwhelmed by . . .” She pressed her fingertips to her mouth, even as she laid her other hand on her belly.

Poor woman. She had quite enough to be dealing with just then. “Clean cloths would be quite helpful also,” Katie hinted.

Mrs. Johnson gave her a grateful look and quickly left the room.

Into the uncomfortable silence, Katie attempted to undertake a bit of light chatter. “Your brother with the birthday—is he older or younger than you?”

“Gabriel is dead.”

’Twas a quick end to a very short conversation, but it did explain a great deal. Tavish had previously told her that Mr. Johnson’s brother had died fighting an Irish regiment at Gettysburg; likely the brother he was mourning that day. The pain of his loss was driving him to drink. Katie had never indulged in liquor. She’d seen too many footmen and stable hands and masters of the house change in terrible ways under the influence of hard drink. But she’d also been told that alcohol numbed the heart and mind. Perhaps Mr. Johnson was grieving too hard to endure it without something to take the sting out.

“I am sorry for that, sir. ’Tis a hard thing to lose a family member.”

“And what do you know of it?” he snapped.

“What do
I
know of losing a loved one?” ’Twas such a ridiculous thing she couldn’t help staring at him a moment. “You know, Mr. Johnson, if you’d step away from your determination to hate everyone you think’s different from you, you just might discover we’ve a few things in common.”

He didn’t answer, but lay there, petulant and frowning.

“I had three brothers and a sister myself,” Katie said.

He eyed her sidelong.
“Had?”

“Aye. We’d a famine in Ireland, a Great Hunger. The food we needed ran out and the people starved. My brothers left, one by one, their bellies and their pockets empty. They left in search of work, because, though so many here in America prefer to think otherwise, the Irish are willing, eager even, to work for what we’re given, be it food or money or a roof over our heads.”

He didn’t look at her, but she could tell he was listening. She’d likely never have another opportunity to tell the man how wrong he was about so many of his neighbors.

“I never saw any of my brothers again. Not a single one. They were gone from us forever.” The loss still hurt, but she pushed on. “And my wee little sister, so tiny and frail, she starved to death in front of our very eyes. She starved full to death, Mr. Johnson. And still there was not food enough for my parents and me. They found me work and left me, so I lost them as well.”

Something that almost looked like sympathy shone a moment in his eyes, though she refused to believe it entirely.

“You ask what I could possibly know about losing someone I love. I assure you, sir, I know that pain well. I know it far too well. I lost every single person I loved. Every one.”

Mrs. Johnson returned with a stack of fresh cloths and set them on the table beside the washbowl. “I think the water is probably hot enough,” she said and slipped out again.

Katie sat quite still, focusing on her coming task. She’d never sewn together a wound before, though she’d seen it done a few times. Servants didn’t warrant the cost of a man of medicine. When they were ill or injured, they physicked each other. ’Twas precisely how her feet had become so terribly deformed. No surgeon had been sent for when frostbite and infection turned her toes black. The blacksmith had undertaken the removal, and he’d done an unsightly job of it.

Now she was preparing herself to act as doctor for a man of means who deeply hated her. She could make her efforts quite painful for him, pulling and tugging more than necessary. She could also make large, inexpert stitches that would do little to pull the wound together. He’d be left with a thick, unsightly scar that would likely not heal quickly. She could do all those things. But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t because, no matter how horrible he was to her, no matter how unfairly he treated the Irish in Hope Springs, purposely hurting the man would be wrong.

“Hot water.” Mrs. Johnson came in. She poured steaming water into the washbowl, before rushing the kettle back to the kitchen.

Katie set to washing the dried blood from Mr. Johnson’s head. She could see he was as uncomfortable with the arrangement as she was. Sworn enemies make awkward sickroom companions.

She took a new cloth, dipped it in the hot water, and rubbed the cake of soap along it. “I’ll make my apologies now, sir, for I know quite well this is going to hurt.”

He winced as she cleaned the cut itself with her soapy rag. To his credit, he didn’t curse at her or swat her hand away. Perhaps he’d make it through the stitching without tears.

Mrs. Johnson returned, hovering about the sofa with a look of complete uncertainty.

“Perhaps,” Katie suggested gently, “you might sit here and hold his hand. You needn’t look at the wound.”

“Would you like that, Jeremiah?” Mrs. Johnson asked hopefully.

“I would, sugar.”

Sugar?
Katie had never heard the Johnsons use pet names for each other. Knowing they did made them seem . . . sweet.

Mrs. Johnson sat on the edge of the sofa with her husband’s hand in hers. ’Twas a loving sight.

Katie finished cleaning the cut as best she could, then set to washing the needle and threads. “Again, sir, I’m sorry for the pain of this.”

He gave a quick, silent nod and closed his eyes.

As the needle jabbed his skin, he sucked in a loud breath. Katie pulled it up through the other side of the wound, then tied the thread in as strong a knot as she knew how to make. She washed the needle again and set to rethreading it.

“I’m sorry about your family,” Mr. Johnson said.

His words hovered between them a moment. Her mind refused at first to accept them whole. But he’d said them. He’d said them without provocation, without reluctance.