“There’s always work to do,” Eliza said. “Especially on Tuesdays.”
“Why Tuesdays?”
“The stage stops on Tuesdays, and the local folks come by to play music and entertain the travelers.”
“They do?” She peeked through the kitchen door and out into the public room. Sure enough, people had gathered in a corner, several instruments among them. “Will they be disappointed that I am the only stage passenger here?”
“Not at all. They gather even when there’s no one here. Music has been a healing balm in this town. I suspect it’ll always be an important part of life here.”
Music had been important in Sophie’s life as well, though she wasn’t able to indulge in it often. She liked to sing but had been told any number of times that her talent was only sufficient to render her efforts uncomfortable. She didn’t wish to embarrass more people than she already had during her brief years amongst Baltimore’s wealthy and influential.
“A great many people here in Hope Springs come from Ireland,” Eliza said. “Gathering to play tunes in the local pub is a way of life there. Our little inn, here, has taken on that role.”
“You’re not Irish,” Sophie said. “I’d guess English.”
“You’d guess rightly. My husband, though, is near about as Irish as they come.”
“Does he join the musicians on Tuesdays?”
Eliza nodded. “He plays the fiddle, and quite well too. He also has a fine singing voice.”
“I like to sing.” Why Sophie shared that part of herself so readily, she couldn’t say.
“Do you? You’re welcome to join the musicians tonight if you’d like.”
“Oh, no. I don’t sing in public.” Not anymore, leastwise. “But I will enjoy listening.While I work.”
Eliza laughed. “I suspect you’re a little stubborn.”
“‘Single-minded’ was the term my father always used.”
“The most helpful task I could give you is to look after the little ones,” Eliza said. “Patrick will wish to play with the musicians, and I’d appreciate being able to put away the supplies our merchant’s son delivered earlier.”
“I’d be delighted,” Sophie said. “I like children, and I don’t get to spend much time with little ones.”
On a blanket on the floor, the O’Connors’ two children sat contentedly. They, no doubt, were quite accustomed to the arrangement, growing up in the inn as they had. The older of the two, a girl likely about four years old, played with a doll. Her baby brother lay on his stomach, attempting valiantly to pick up a wooden block.
Sophie had only just arrived at the blanket herself when the girl called out, “Papa!” Her tone was not one of alarm, so Sophie didn’t think she’d caused the girl any distress.
Patrick looked over from his place among the musicians. “What’s the matter,mo stóirín?”
The little girl’s answer was a pout.
“Are you wanting to sit by me during the music tonight?” He sounded every bit as Irish as his wife had declared him to be.
The girl nodded, her pout only growing.
“What of your wee brother? He’ll not wish to be left alone.”
The poor girl looked ready to cry with disappointment.
“I’ll keep an eye on the boy,” Sophie said.
“You needn’t do that, Miss Kingston.”
“It’d be a pleasure, truly. I like children, and I enjoy music. And if it’ll help your wife see to her tasks for the evening, all the better.”
Patrick scooped up his daughter, who smiled at him with absolute adoration in her eyes. As he carried her over to where the musicians were gathered, he rubbed his close-cut beard against her cheek, and she giggled.
