He needed someone who didn’t require him to pretend that he was whole, who liked the person he was even when what he presented wasn’t very likeable.
He needed . . . Lydia. Her sweet, ready welcome.
He arrived at the Archer house almost before his mind pieced together his destination. The kitchen door around back was open, as if waiting for him. A wishful thought, but one he let himself indulge in for a moment.
A little girl’s voice—too old for Lydia—wafted out to him. Ivy, no doubt. She was talking on and on about people Patrick didn’t know. He slipped inside, quiet as he could manage, not wanting to interrupt.
Both Archer girls were at the table, plates of food in front of them. Emma, the older of the two, sat quite peacefully and calmly. Her sister was talking so ceaselessly, she’d need days and days to finish her food.
Eliza stood at the washbasin, scrubbing a pot. She smiled as she listened to the little girl’s chatter. Patrick stood there, enjoying the sight of Eliza. She’d made him feel welcome in a rickety stagecoach despite his gruff responses and vagabond appearance. She’d declared him her friend when he’d felt utterly alone. She’d convinced him to cut his hair, something he’d refused to do for years, and she’d cut it without making him feel like a child or a miscreant or a charity project. Little wonder the Archer girls were so comfortable with her. Even he was at ease in her company, and he wasn’t comfortable with anyone.
Ivy spotted him, and a squeal pierced the air around them. “You cut your hair off!”
“Miss Eliza cut it,” he said. “And m’beard. Am I looking less like a beggar man, then?”
“You look like Mr. Tavish,” Ivy said.
Emma, studying him, offered a different assessment. “You look like Aidan.”
Ivy rolled her eyes. “Aidan doesn’t have whiskers, silly. He’s just a boy.”
“He’s fifteen years old. That’s not a boy.”
Fifteen was young yet, but to a girl two or three years younger than that, Aidan likely did seem grown up.
“What brings you around, Patrick?” Eliza asked, turning enough to look at him without abandoning her washing. “Would you care for a sandwich? Ask the girls; I make delicious sandwiches.”
Ivy knelt on her chair, facing him. “She puts butter on the bread. That’s her secret.”
“’Tisn’t a secret any longer, lass. You’ve given it away.”
Far from looking guilty, Ivy grinned.
“I’ve come to see how Lydia’s faring. Last I saw her, she felt worse than a cat in a room full o’ dogs.”
Eliza dried her hands on a kitchen towel before stepping away from the basin. “She might be awake from her nap.” She motioned him to follow her to the bedroom. He didn’t hesitate.
Lydia was sitting in the bed he and Eliza had made for the sweet girl. Sleep sat heavy on her features, but she didn’t seem awake enough to venture out.
“You have a visitor, Lydia.”
She popped her fingers in her mouth, eying him with palpable uncertainty.
“It’s Mr. Patrick, sweetie,” Eliza said.
Lydia didn’t look reassured.
Eliza lowered her voice, leaning a bit toward him. “You do look quite a bit different.”
That did make sense. Patrick knelt beside Lydia’s bed while keeping enough distance not to scare her. “Don’t you remember me,mo stóirín?”
Her face lit up when he spoke. “I-und!”
His heart warmed on the instant. “There you are, love.”
Lydia reached for him, and he scooped her up. Before standing, he looked over his shoulder at Eliza, making certain she’d no objections to the girl’s nap being over. She only smiled and waved him back toward the kitchen.
He carried his sweet, tiny friend in one arm. She rubbed her little fingers over his neatly trimmed beard. He brushed his hand over her cheeks and forehead. Not a bit of fever. She did cough a little, though.
