Longing for Home (33 page)

“Aye.” ’Twas Biddy’s turn to look a touch confused. “The Irish are charged a higher price for basic things at the mercantile. Flour, sugar, molasses.”

“Joseph Archer bought all my supplies.”

Amazed glances flitted between them all.

“Then you likely paid the Red Road price.” Eloise’s eyes grew wide. “Mr. Johnson wouldn’t dare cheat Joseph Archer.”

Red Road prices. Irish prices. What kind of place was this?

Rose McCann, who’d come over with Eloise, set a hand on Katie’s arm, looking up hopefully into her eyes. “My husband’s birthday is Monday week, Katie. I’d meant to bake a cake special for it. But at the price you buy your supplies, it’d cost me less to buy the cake from you. Would you consider it?”

What could she do but agree? Expanding beyond bread was absolutely necessary. Though she hoped more loaves would be sold each week at some point, Katie knew her profits hadn’t yet covered what she’d spent starting her business.

“And had you considered offering a proper brown bread?” Eloise asked. “I can’t tell you how I’ve longed for a brown bread like we knew at home. If anyone could make it the way our grannies did, it’d be you.”

Brown bread.
Katie’s heart filled with home at the mere thought of it. “Might be tricky finding wheat ground to the proper coarseness.”

Eloise waved off that objection. “But if you could?”

“I’ll see what the mercantile offers and give it some thought,” Katie said.

The women made their way back amongst the partygoers. Katie mulled over what they’d said.

“Tavish told me Mr. Johnson overcharges the Irish, but I hadn’t realized he did it as a regular practice.”

“Aye,” Biddy replied. “’Tis one of the reasons far more Irish families than Red have had to give up on living here.”

They walked together toward the chairs and benches set up around the empty fire pit. There was not a fire that night. Katie was relieved to see it.

“Does Mr. Johnson charge more out of spite or as a means of driving the Irish away?”

Biddy frowned at the question. “Both, I’d guess. ’Tis hardest on us in the winter. We depend a lot more on what we can purchase.”

“Like bread at a good price?” Katie still could not comprehend how she could be selling bread at a profit to herself but at a price lower than her neighbors could make their own.

“Word will spread fast that buying your bread will save money, money that could be used to buy other things our families need. I daresay you’ll quickly be filling orders for soda bread and brown bread and daily loaves. There aren’t enough of us to make you rich by any means. But I’d say we’ll keep you busy.”

Katie had spent so much of her life focused on how to make more money, how to save faster. She’d not done so out of greed but a desperation to return home. Until Biddy had pointed out that she likely would make very little as the Irish baker woman in town, Katie had hardly given it a thought through all their conversation. She would be doing a service for families who needed it. She could give them the tiniest reprieve from the weight of an injustice.

“Perhaps you might offer tarts at a price for special occasions,” Biddy said. “I swear the entire gathering near drowned themselves drooling over it as you walked to the food table.”

They sat in two chairs side by side where the partygoers always gathered for stories.

“Rose did say something about a cake for a birthday.” Katie tried to not worry about whether her friends could afford fancy offerings when they needed her to save them money on something as basic as bread.

“We don’t have such treats often, mostly at céilís and special times.”

“I’ll have myself a regular bakery before too long.” Katie liked the sound of it. To be an independent woman of business would be something indeed. She could leave Joseph’s employ and calm the rattled nerves of the Red Road. Better than that, even, she’d be helping these people who had welcomed her as a friend, some, like the O’Connors, who even treated her like family.

Emma’s voice jumped into her thoughts.
It’s as if we’re secret friends.
“Does Emma Archer have many friends?”

Biddy didn’t bat even an eyelash at the sudden change in topic. “She and Marianne Johnson are quite the matched set, peas in a pod, they are. But other than Marianne, Emma hasn’t really any chums. She tries so hard to be such a proper little lady, and she’s so quiet on top of it. The other girls think she’s putting on airs.”

“Aye. I’ve seen that in her myself. But where do you suppose she gets that from? Joseph can be grumpy, but I’ve not seen him act quite so . . . I guess proper is the closest word to what I’m trying to say.”

“The word you’re looking for is snobbish.” Biddy threw Katie a look of mingled amusement and irritation. “And before you object, I’m not saying Emma is, but she comes across that way. Vivian Archer, Emma’s late mother, was as snobbish as they come. She went to great lengths to make quite clear she hated everything about this place. She walked about looking down her nose at everyone. We were none of us civilized enough or sophisticated enough for her tastes. Everyone in town could tell she tolerated us but disliked the necessity of it very much.” Biddy quickly crossed herself. “I oughtn’t speak ill of the dead.”

“Then why don’t you speak of the living? We can say all the unflattering things about them we want.”

Biddy laughed at that. “Emma doesn’t speak of her mother often, but when she does, ’tis always of a lady who was sophisticated and proper. She remembers her being quite a fine lady. The rest of us, however, remember her as quite a—”

“Pill?” Katie finished for her.

Biddy’s face filled with mischief. “May she rest in peace.”

“May she, indeed.” Katie kept a straight face, though she felt sore tempted to laugh.

“You’re trouble, you are.” Biddy leaned her shoulder against Katie’s, giving her a friendly nudge. “We’d best choose a different topic, else I’ll be at my rosary all night.”

“Aye. A living topic, I’m guessing you’re wanting.”

Biddy tapped on her lips, eyeing Katie thoughtfully. “You know, that Tavish O’Connor, he’s quite alive, I hear.”

“Oh, no, you don’t. Then I’ll be all night at my rosary—coveting my neighbor’s brother-in-law, I’d be.”

Biddy burst out laughing. Katie laughed along, right until the moment she realized that Tavish stood but a few feet away, watching her with a look of utter amusement on his face.

Heat stole across her cheeks. How long had he been standing there listening to her gossip like a dairymaid? She slouched low in her chair and muttered, “Ah now, if that doesn’t just burn it all.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“A pleasure seeing you as well, Sweet Katie.” Tavish shot Biddy a questioning look. Why did he get the feeling he wasn’t entirely welcome?

“Your timing’s near about as good as an unwound pocket watch,” Biddy told him.

“Interrupted a good gab, did I?”

“You may well say that.” Biddy’s tone was too exaggerated to hold any actual scolding. “I’ve not seen my friend Katie since Thursday, when we drove up and down the road delivering bread at such a speed you’d think the banshee was nipping at the horse’s hooves. I’m needing a more leisurely coze just now.”

Katie smiled at that. Tavish loved the sight of her smile. She’d seemed so irritable the first day or so that he’d known her, so quick to spit nails. He liked her fire, but he adored the moments when she softened.

“I don’t know that those were the fastest deliveries ever made,” Katie said, “though we
were
a bit rushed if you go to that of it.”

“Heavens, Katie.” Biddy wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a tight, friendly squeeze. “There are times I swear you sound like Ireland herself. I can’t remember the last time I heard someone say ‘if you go to that of it.’”

While he agreed, Tavish hadn’t come to discuss Katie’s turns of phrase. “Though I risk getting my ears boxed for interrupting again, I haven’t seen Katie in a week, I haven’t. So find some reason to give your seat over to me for a piece, would you?”

“Would I? Would a duck swim?” Biddy tossed back.

Katie pushed against Biddy’s shoulder with her own. “Who sounds like Ireland now?”

Biddy stood. She gave them both a terribly conspiratorial glance. “Have a fine coze you two.” Then, as she passed him, she whispered a bit of advice. “Don’t drag your feet, Tavish. She’s beginning to wonder.”

What did she mean by that, exactly?

He took Biddy’s vacated seat.

“The word around the céilí is a certain town baker woman brought a fine raspberry tart to share,” he said. “And, to hear tell, the tart is made of quite the plumpest and finest berries, which makes clear just which farm they came from.”

“I stumbled across a basket of berries while making my deliveries, and I stole away with it before anyone could stop me.” Katie’s attempt at a devious look was entirely ruined by the smile in her beautiful brown eyes.

Tavish settled back in the chair, at home for the first time all week. Again and again he’d cursed his early harvest schedule. He’d thought of her every single day but hadn’t a moment free to call on her. He’d had to settle with leaving the coins for her bread beside a bucket of his finest berries on the porch. She’d baked the tart with those berries, and he noticed she wore the ribbon in her hair he’d left for her at the last delivery.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you, Katie,” he said.

“Thank me for what?”

“For being a friend to Biddy. Though I can’t say why, she’s not had a close friend in all the years we’ve been here. The entire family is grateful to you for that bit of kindness.”

Katie shook her head. “You say that as though it were a great act of selflessness to accept her friendship, when I know it is not.”

He hated the picture she carried around of herself. “You’re still convinced you’re a horrible person, then?”

“Not horrible, only—” Her forehead scrunched in thought. “Only not as good a person as I’d like to be.”

“Who among us is?”

“But I’m working on it.” Katie seemed to speak as much to herself as to him. “I’ve a few things yet to do before I can feel satisfied with the person I am.”

Things to do? He watched her closely. “Like returning your father’s fiddle?” He lowered his voice, remembering she’d spoken of that in confidence.

Katie nodded, a heartbreaking earnestness in the gesture. What other weights did she carry in her heart?

“I’ve a feeling it’ll mean very little to you,” Tavish said, “but even with that mark on your record, I think you’re far from being the greedy person you’re convinced you are. More important than having your father see that, you need to see that about yourself.”

He knew the instant she decided to change the topic. Her entire expression underwent a transformation from deeply thoughtful to lighthearted. “I’ve not seen you about lately.”

“I hope you know I’ve not been avoiding you.” He not only accepted the new direction for their gabbing but appreciated it. He wanted her to know the reason for his absence, that he wasn’t staying away on purpose or not thinking about her.

She smiled and some of his worry lifted. He hated that he couldn’t seem to lighten her as easily as he managed with others. She needed it more than any other person he knew.

“I may have been young when we left our farm,” she said, “but I remember what harvest time was like. You’ve likely hardly slept, let alone had time for socializing. I had my doubts you’d even come tonight.”

“I do miss a great many céilís in July and August.” He had a feeling he’d feel that loss more acutely that season. “And I spend the fall making preserves and listening to my female relations telling me what I’m doing wrong in the undertaking, and I help my brother and brothers-in-law with harvesting their fields. Come October, I’m running deliveries all over the territory and beyond, trying to beat the snows.” He grew tired just thinking of the relentless schedule ahead of him.

“Then ’tis little wonder your family despairs of ever seeing you married off. Sounds to me as though you haven’t time at all to be courting.”

“Hmm.” Tavish leaned in so close he could smell the flowery scent he’d come to associate with her since their picnic by the river. Could she hear how hard his heart had begun pounding? “Is that a complaint or an invitation, Sweet Katie?” he whispered.

Her gaze locked with his. They were near enough to each other he could see her eyes turn a touch foggy. Her expression turned nearly blank. Each breath came slow and long. If he hadn’t been entirely convinced that kissing her would undo every bit of progress he’d made at getting past her barriers, he’d have done so without wasting a single moment.

“I’m sorry, what was your question?” Katie’s voice sounded hushed and jumbled.

Tavish’s gaze remained on her face, though he didn’t move the slightest nor answer. He couldn’t look away from that dreamy expression she wore. He also had no idea, himself, what question he’d asked.

A third voice jumped in. “Seems to me a lad ought to kiss a lass when she looks at him that way.”

Tavish nearly laughed out loud. Leave it to Granny Claire to say just that. Katie smiled despite the color creeping across her face.