Laundry was far from her favorite chore, but she was anxious to do it well. First impressions could never be remade.
She glanced at Lydia, making certain the girl was still playing quietly nearby. Handkerchief Dolly was a nearly magical thing; Lydia never seemed to grow bored of the odd excuse for a toy.
Eliza swirled a blue calico dress around in the soapy washbasin, then scrubbed it forcefully against the ridges of the washboard. The clothes in the basket beside her were piled high. Laundry was exhausting work.
Lydia held up her handkerchief. “Doll.”
The poor child would likely be confused when she saw an actual doll.
She smiled at the memory of her own younger self thoroughly flummoxed the first time she saw an ordinary house. Her family had run an inn. Their kitchen had served dozens. Their “sitting room” was the inn’s public room, always filled with a mixture of local people and strangers passing through. Never did it occur to her that other people’s homes weren’t like hers.
Mercy, she missed those days. The Charred Oak had been alive with activity. Every day had been different from the last. The challenge of it all had been half the fun. And her family had workedforno one. They’d been free in a way few from their station in life ever were.
The memories of that time brought a lightness to her heart despite the aching in her arms and back as she scrubbed one piece of clothing after another against the washboard.
A regular had come to the Charred Oak nearly every day for a thick slice of sprouted-wheat bread and a tankard of ale. He’d told the most diverting stories. She’d loved hearing them as she’d grown up. If only Lydia could’ve had that same experience.
In Hope Springs, Lydia would hear stories at the weekly town parties; that was something. But her day-to-day life would be in a single room off someone else’s kitchen, playing with a handkerchief doll while her mum spent her days in isolation, bent over fires and stoves and floors. Eliza didn’t mind the work; she simply would have preferred working for herself, in another inn perhaps, seeing people every day,newpeople regularly. She’d grown up with that and longed for it.
She pulled one of Mr. Archer’s shirts from the rinse basin and wrung it out before hanging it on the line. This job had been a godsend. She was truly grateful for it, no matter that she missed her childhood home. She’d seen a lot of her dreams of America fade away over the five years she’d been in this country, and she’d survived each disappointment. More than survived, she’d been happy. At times, she’d been absolutely delighted.
I’ll find my feet again. I always do.
And Lydia would have playmates and a safe place to live and—
Lydia. When had she last checked on her daughter? She’d been so deep in her own thoughts that she hadn’t glanced over in some time.
Apron damp from the wet laundry, she turned to where Lydia had been. But she wasn’t there. Her “doll” was gone as well. Eliza spun slowly, searching the area. No Lydia.
How long had it been since she’d seen her? How far could she have gone?
Eliza moved swiftly to the back porch. The kitchen door was closed, and Lydia couldn’t have opened it. She wouldn’t be inside, then. Lydia wasn’t near the fire, thank the heavens.
The barn, perhaps? According to Katie, Mr. Archer was in there. If Lydia had caused him grief, heaven help them all.
“Lydia? Sweet pea?”
No answer. Concerns about inconveniencing her employer faded, replaced by very real worry. A farm could be a dangerous place for a child on her own, with scythes and axes and any number of dangerous tools. Irrigation ditches she might fall into. Horses that might trample her. Cows that might kick her. Mercy, where was the girl?
“Lydia?” she called a little louder. “Lydia!”
“Over here, lass.”
Patrick?She moved in the direction of his voice and found him sitting on the ground on the other side of the laundry she’d hung up. Lydia sat directly in front of him, mesmerized by the Cat’s Cradle he’d woven around his fingers. Her handkerchief doll sat on her lap.
Still holding his twine-wrapped fingers out to Lydia, he spoke to Eliza. “She was wanderin’ toward the barn. I didn’t think you’d want her in there.”
Lydia had toddled away, and Eliza hadn’t even noticed. What if Patrick hadn’t been there? What if Lydia had made for the fields, only to be lost in the endless rows of tall crops? What if she’d fallen into the river?
She pressed a hand to her racing heart. “I looked away only for a moment.” That wasn’t entirely true. She’d been distracted for several long moments, far more than she ought.
Lydia poked at the Cat’s Cradle with one slobber-covered finger.
“I’ll trap your finger if you pop it in there,mo stóirín.”
Patrick had looked after her. She was safe, no thanks to Eliza. The panic she’d held at bay during the brief moments Lydia had been missing surfaced in a rush of emotion.
“I couldn’t find her.” She lowered herself onto the ground directly beside him, numb yet aching. “What if she’d wandered into the fire or the fields?”
