Hope Springs (11 page)

“No sugar, then, this time.” His voice held an edge of forced acceptance. “Just the flour.”

“Wool?” Mrs. Johnson was at the counter alongside her husband, which was unusual.

Mr. Scott shook his head. “Not this time.”

The answer seemed to surprise and confuse Mrs. Johnson. “But it’s nearing winter,” she pointed out. “You cannot underestimate the value of a good coat when the weather turns.”

Mr. Scott held his chin at a proud angle. “I know its value well enough, as does your husband, it would seem. He further knows why you’re not selling much wool lately.”

Mr. Johnson dropped a heavy bag of flour in front of Mr. Scott.

Mr. Scott slapped a handful of coins on the counter, the clanging echoing in the uncomfortable silence. He took the bag of flour under his arm and left without further comment.

“How high have you raised the prices, Jeremiah?” Mrs. Johnson asked under her breath. “They’ve always bought goods before, even at the higher cost.”

“They’ll buy,” he said stubbornly. “Eventually they’ll be cold and hungry enough to buy.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then they’ll leave or starve. Either way, it’ll take care of the problem.”

His venom struck at Katie’s resolve. How could any person speak so coldly of another person’s suffering, their possible demise, even? Convincing him to even appear merciful would be an uphill struggle, and no denying it.

She put firmly in her mind Joseph Archer’s manner of dealing with her during that first day she’d worked for him. He’d shown nothing but resolve and businesslike logic. She’d struggled to find any way of arguing with him. That was exactly how she needed to approach the Johnsons.

Katie stepped up to the counter, her shoulders back and her posture unbending. “Good morning, Mr. Johnson, Mrs. Johnson.”

“Another one,” Mr. Johnson muttered. “What do you want?”

“I want a word with you, if you must know.”

“I don’t have time for—”

Katie spoke right over him, as if they were equals. “If you’re losing sales the likes of what I just saw with Mr. Scott, I’d wager you don’t have time
not
to listen. I’ve come with a business idea that I think will bring your profits back up.”

“My profits are just fine.”

“I’ve my suspicions that’s not so true as you’re letting on. You’ve a pile of unsold shoes so high it’s gone and toppled over. There’s dust on your bolts of wool. There’s dust on most everything, in fact.”

Mr. Johnson’s eyes narrowed, and not in a ponderous way. She was pricking him where it was most tender.

“I’ve no formal training in such things,” Katie admitted with only the slightest, momentary dip of her head, “but I do think you’ve put your prices out of the reach of those who would buy these things. Wanting or not wanting them isn’t a consideration any longer. There’s simply no money.”

“I’ll not have some Irish filth coming up out of the ditches to tell me how to run my business.”

Katie kept her dignity ahead of her like a shield. Half the town was depending on her, whether they knew it or not.

“If you lowered the Irish prices to where they were before—which is still considerably higher than the Red Road prices, I’ll point out—your sales would likely return to normal.”

Mrs. Johnson actually seemed to be listening to her argument. Perhaps if she proceeded carefully, she might convince the woman to help talk her husband around.

“If you are asking me to show mercy to a bunch of lazy heathens—”

“I know too much of you to try any such thing,” Katie said. “I’m not speaking of mercy or pity. I’m talking about a trade—a business trade.”

That got his attention, though he only barely let her see as much.

“What kind of trade?” Mrs. Johnson asked.

“Hush, Carol,” Mr. Johnson ground out.

Katie ignored him and continued with her point. “You’ve a sign in your window advertising a position. That sign’s been hanging there for all the months I’ve lived in Hope Springs. Now, if you’d be honest with yourself, you’d admit that if no one’s come forward yet in three months or more, no one will.”

Neither of the Johnsons responded, though both were watching her closely.

“As near as I can tell, you’re needing someone to straighten and dust and clean, perhaps organize displays, wash windows, wax the floor.”

Mrs. Johnson gave several small nods of her head. Mr. Johnson’s complexion grew a touch splotchy, as though he fought down a hint of embarrassment at the obvious state of his place of business. Katie was careful to keep any hint of accusation or disapproval from her tone. She remembered the inarguable logic of Joseph’s reasoning that first day. She could mimic that tone, to a degree at least.

“I’ve worked as a household servant since I was eight years old. All I’ve done these past eighteen years and more is straighten and dust and clean. I’ve organized pantries and cupboards and linen closets. I’ve even waxed floors and kept windows clear as a lake on a cloudless day. You’ll not find a soul anywhere in Hope Springs, perhaps anywhere in all of Wyoming Territory, who can do the job you need faster or better than I can.”

Mr. Johnson’s splotchiness gave way to full-faced redness. “I’m not hiring Irish.” He spat the final word.

Katie was unmoved. “I’m not speaking of hiring, nor salaries, nor true employment in the sense you’re thinking. I’m speaking of a trade.”

Mrs. Johnson spoke first. “What kind of trade?”

“Hush, woman.”

Mrs. Johnson held up a hand. “No, I want to hear what she has to say. I will not be able to do my work around here until well after this child arrives. We need someone to see to it.”

“But she is Irish.”

Mrs. Johnson looked her husband dead in the eye. “She is also the only person in four months to ask about the job. The only one, Jeremiah.”

He muttered something under his breath and paced away from the counter. Mrs. Johnson looked at Katie, and with an almost regal nod of her head, indicated Katie should continue. ’Twas very much like the superior gestures she’d so often received from the ladies of the houses where she’d worked for so many years. Oddly enough, it put Katie at ease. Here was a give-and-take she understood.

“I am offering to do your sweeping and straightening and cleaning, at least a few days a week, in exchange for returning everything to the prices they were before.”

“The Irish price?” Mrs. Johnson asked.

Katie nodded. “You’ll not be losing any profit over what you made before. And, in exchange for returning your prices to normal, you’d get that job filled you’ve been advertising for these many weeks. You’d win on both counts.”

Mrs. Johnson appeared to mull that over. “It would be very nice to have the position filled, but it would mean having an Irishwoman working here. I cannot say that would be looked well on by everyone. Some would be upset, in fact.”

Clearly Mr. Johnson was among that number.

“I understand.” Katie let some of her defiant posture soften. “But I wouldn’t be at the counter, wouldn’t interact with any customers. I work quickly and quietly. I’d keep out of the way. Other than looking out over a neat and tidy shop, you’d hardly even know I was here.”

“Except I’ll have to listen to that ridiculous accent of yours, hearing the way you butcher the English language.” Mr. Johnson still hadn’t returned to the counter.

Katie wanted to argue that the heavy influence of the American South in his voice made his words sound odd to
her
ears, but she opted to keep her mouth shut and simply let him think.

A Red Road customer came inside. Katie melted back, doing her best to simply blend in. She could show the Johnsons just how invisible she could truly be. The customer, whom Katie didn’t recognize, dug through the pile of shoes, toppling it in a few places. Mr. Johnson moved to help pick up the pairs that tumbled to the ground. Mrs. Johnson watched from behind the counter, a look of ponderous concern on her face.

When the customer repeatedly had to wipe dust from her fingertips after touching a tabletop or display, both Johnsons grew noticeably flustered. Katie couldn’t have hoped for better timing.

Please let this work out. Please.

Mrs. Flannigan came in during the dust difficulties. She held a small change purse in her hands and asked Mrs. Johnson about the price of sugar. When, after checking with her husband, Mrs. Johnson quoted the recently raised price, Mrs. Flannigan left without making a purchase. Katie’s heart broke to see it, even as a small flicker of hope grew inside.

She stood silent and still, waiting for the Johnsons to think through what she’d said and what they’d just seen.

The shop was empty for a full five minutes before Mr. Johnson, behind the counter once more, turned toward her. He pointed a menacing finger directly at her.

“Be here by six in the morning, every morning. You’ll work until noon.”

Katie nodded. She’d originally imagined three full days, not every single morning. But the look of disappointment on Mrs. Flannigan’s face and the tears in Biddy’s voice earlier that week, decided it for her.

“And,” Mr. Johnson added with a flash in his eyes, “you’ll keep your mouth shut while you’re working here. I don’t want to hear any
’twas
or
’tis
or any of your Irish words.”

She almost answered with a “Yes, Mr. Johnson,” but thought better of it. If he wanted silence, he’d have it.

“And—”

“Jeremiah.” Katie thought Mrs. Johnson’s tone was promising. She at least was making a minimal effort to put an end to Mr. Johnson’s demands.

Mr. Johnson kept right on at it. “I don’t want you near the customers or talking to them. You keep out of the way. Give me one lick of trouble and this trade of ours is off. Understand?”

Katie nodded firmly.

Mr. Johnson slammed his ledger book on the counter, taking up his pen. “Now get to work.” His gaze dropped to his account book.

Katie was torn between grinning in triumph and sinking with the enormity of the troubles she’d just invited. Mr. Johnson would be a difficult employer. If past experience was any indication, she’d likely be insulted and belittled again and again. But it would be worth it.

Chapter Eleven

Joseph bit back a few tense words, working at being patient with his girls. They were both trying very hard to help with dinner but were only making things worse. They’d attempted to make pancakes, but after four eggs dropped to the floor, followed by nearly an entire pitcher of milk and a good amount of flour, Joseph had opted for something with fewer steps and, thus, fewer opportunities for disaster. But fried eggs had proven just as unsuccessful. If Hope Springs had even one restaurant, he’d have thrown in the towel and driven the girls into town.

Emma and Ivy were both on their hands and knees wiping up the mess with towels. He’d likely be paying Harriet Kester extra this week for laundering. If only Katie could have stayed until the new housekeeper came. Disaster after disaster had plagued the house since she left.

And I miss her.
He planned to drop by the next day and talk with her. He’d been working on an excuse. Katie had taken a job at the mercantile; the idea didn’t sit well with him, and he wanted to ask her about it. If he happened to find another reason to stay, perhaps something else needing repairs, so be it. He’d enjoyed the few minutes he’d spent the last week fixing her chest of drawers. Katie had sat nearby and talked with him. He’d missed that since she left.

“It’s like paste, Pompah.” Ivy squished her hand in the sticky mess of eggs, milk, and flour mashed together on the floor. She clapped her sticky hands together, then stretched out the viscous mixture between them.

“You’re a mess, sweetheart.” He motioned her toward him. “I think you can both be done now.”

“But we’re not finished cleaning it up,” Emma protested from her own corner of the messy floor. The hem and front of her dress were filthy, covered in the same concoction as Ivy’s hands and face.

“You’ve helped quite a lot.” He felt justified in the white lie. Things would go far more quickly and smoothly if he didn’t have to clean them up as well. “I’ll finish what’s left.”

Emma’s floured forehead puckered. “But we were supposed to do the low parts, and you were going to do the high parts.”

Most children would have gladly been released from chores. His Emma almost seemed offended.

“What are we going to eat?” Ivy had happily handed over the cleaning assignment.

“I’m not certain yet,” Joseph said. “But I can’t make anything until I clean this up.”

“I can help, Papa.” Emma’s look was so earnest, Joseph couldn’t bring himself to turn her away. But letting her continue to help would only make the mess bigger.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin, trying to sort out the difficulty. Until Katie had left he’d never really asked either of the girls to do chores. His late wife had absolutely recoiled at the idea of her daughters doing “servants’ work.” But they no longer had any servants, and there was still plenty of work to be done.

A knock echoed through the kitchen.

“Me! Me!” Ivy rushed to the door.