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Eliza bounced Lydia in her arms as she paced inside Mr. and Mrs. O’Connor’s home. Outside, the céilí continued. Laughter and music floated in. Was Patrick still playing with the musicians? She hoped so. Sharing important aspects of himself with the people around him would help him heal.
Lydia whimpered.
“Doc will be back any moment, sweetie. He’ll make your foot feel better.”
That didn’t stop Lydia’s tears. She wasn’t feverish, which set Eliza’s mind a little at ease. An infection had taken hold in the girl’s foot, but the warmth was limited. They’d not left it too late.
Footsteps sounded from the doorway. Dr. Jones at last.
“You’ll feel better now,” Eliza said.
“What’s the matter with her?”
She spun back. It wasn’t Dr. Jones at all, but Patrick who’d stepped inside. No matter that she hadn’t entirely sorted out him or the role she was open to him playing in her life; she was surprisingly happy to see him there.
“She got a splinter in her foot about a week ago. I pulled it out and thought that was the end of it. But Emma brought her to me at the very end of your tune because she was crying and fretting over her foot. I peeked at it and”—worry tugged at her heart—“it’s turned a bit putrid.”
“Has Dr. Jones seen it?”
She nodded. “He rushed back to his soddie to fetch his doctor’s bag. I’m just waiting for him.”
Lydia cried more miserably. Eliza didn’t know how to ease her girl’s suffering.
“Come here, mo stóirín.” Patrick held his hands out for Lydia. “Let’s give your ma a chance to breathe.”
Eliza hesitated.
“I’ve not had a drink in more than two weeks,” he said. “I’ll understand if that’s not enough to set your mind at ease, and I’ll always be honest with you on that score. I swear to you.”
He was being very honest. And he’d been such a comfort to Lydia in the past. She could let herself trust him enough to hold her little girl, especially since she herself would be nearby. She set Lydia in his arms.
Patrick gently kissed Lydia’s cheek and whispered reassurances to her. The poor dear was so miserable that she’d even abandoned her doll. But she held fast to Patrick. She held the lapel of his coat in one fist. Her other hand brushed over his neatly trimmed beard, something she did nearly every time she was with Patrick. He never seemed to mind.
Eliza sat in a chair nearby and just breathed. It was nice to have someone sharing the care of her daughter, even if only for a moment. She often felt inadequate. And she was nearly always exhausted. Patrick’s tender kindness was soothing Lydia and slowing her tears. He was helping both of them.
Dr. Jones soon arrived, leather satchel in hand. He motioned Patrick and Lydia over to where Eliza sat, indicating he should sit in the chair next to hers. The doctor pulled over an oil lamp. He turned up the wick.
Lydia folded herself into Patrick, clearly not pleased at this new arrival. Poor Dr. Jones. It must be hard caring for people who were afraid of his help.
The doctor set out a vial and a few instruments, along with a couple of rags and some strips of linen. He then took hold of Lydia’s leg and carefully straightened it enough for the sole of her foot to be accessible.
Patrick held her in an embrace, her back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her. Eliza reached over and took the little girl’s hand. It broke her heart to hear Lydia cry as the doctor worked on her wound. The infection had to be drained out and treated, but the doing of it was so painful.
“She’ll be grand,” Patrick said. “You’ll see.”
“She will.” Dr. Jones spoke as he worked. “But she’ll also be a bit sore. You’ll struggle to get her to walk for the next day or two. Little ones are resilient, though. She’ll be back to running around in no time.”
“Until she picks up another splinter.” She kissed Lydia’s little hand, hoping to provide some comfort as she endured the misery. “I may have to get her shoes before winter after all. I’d hoped to wait a bit longer, so I could have more on hand if the stage company gives their nod to the new inn location. But I can’t have Lydia’s feet full of splinters.”
Dr. Jones wrapped Lydia’s foot in the long strips of bandaging. “I’ve given some thought to your new idea.”
“And?”
He met her eye. She recognized the apology in them, and her spirits fell. “I can’t set my practice so far away from all of my patients. Even the time it took to get from here to my soddie and back made me nervous.”
She could appreciate that, though it was disappointing.
“I hope that won’t cause too many difficulties for you,” he said.
Eliza shook her head. “The stage company and the funds are far bigger obstacles. I do hope you can build yourself a proper infirmary, though, and a proper home.”
“So do I.” He tied off the bandaging. Before putting his supplies away, Dr. Jones took Lydia’s free hand and smiled softly at her. “I’m sorry that hurt. Your foot will feel better soon, I promise.”
When he was ready to go, Eliza followed him back to the door, receiving instructions on how to care for Lydia’s foot as it healed.
“I do hope you’re able to get your inn built,” he said, standing in the doorway.
“As someone once told me, if the path I’m on doesn’t lead to what I’m looking for, I’ll find the path that does.”
He blushed a little. “That is good advice.”
“I thought so, as well.”
He dipped his head and slipped back outside to the party. He was a good man, their doctor.
Mrs. O’Connor stepped inside in almost that exact moment. “Oh, Eliza. How is Lydia’s foot?”
“Doc says she’ll be fine in a few days.”
“Oh, what a relief.” Her gaze moved to Patrick, holding Lydia in his arms. “Patrick always was so sweet with the little ones. He used to call Finbarr ‘bean sprout’ and they were such good little friends.”
“He’s very loving to Lydia. That speaks well of his heart.”
Mrs. O’Connor crossed to her son and his precious armful. Patrick smiled up at his ma, a lightness in the expression Eliza hadn’t seen before with his family.
“Poor girl has the sniffle hiccups,” she said to her son.
He rubbed Lydia’s back. She was curled into his chest. “She feels terrible poorly, Ma.”
“Well.” Mrs. O’Connor stroked Lydia’s hair. “She’ll likely be sleeping in a moment, now that Doc’s done digging around and she has you keeping her warm and safe.”
“Rest’ll do her good,” Patrick said.
“Rest’d do her worn-thin ma good as well.” Though Mrs. O’Connor had lowered her voice, Eliza heard. Far from offended, she agreed.
As his ma made her way to the nearby table and snatched up a bowl of scones to take back out to the party, Patrick got to his feet, taking care not to jostle Lydia. Mrs. O’Connor stepped out once more. Patrick carried Lydia over to Eliza.
She reached for the girl, intending to make the exchange.
Patrick shook his head. “I’ll keep holding her. I meant only to ask if you’d like to lie down. Lydia’ll do grandly with me while you rest.”
It was a kindhearted offer but one she couldn’t accept. “I should take her home. She’ll rest better if she’s able to sleep in her own bed.”
“Let me walk back with you,” he said. “She can rest on m’shoulder as we go. Then the both of you can go to sleep straight off once you’re home.”
“You’d do that? Even though I tossed you out last time I saw you?”
He colored up a little. “I deserved it. And so there’s no misunderstanding between us, I’m not offering to walk with you because I’m expecting you to have forgiven me, or to forgive me now. I just want Lydia to be able to heal, and I want you to be able to rest.”
The sincerity of his tone and compassion in his words warmed her. “I’d be grateful to you if you’d walk us home.”
As they wove through the partygoers, Patrick received a lot of compliments on his fiddle playing. He accepted them with obvious embarrassment.
Once they were free of the gathering, Eliza tossed in her own observation. “You play the fiddle very well. I hope you don’t regret sharing your music with everyone. You said it was very personal.”
“I’m learning to be more vulnerable,” he said. “And more authentic.”
“Because of what I said?” She wasn’t sure what she wanted the answer to be.
“Because you were right. I’ve been hiding a long time. I’m ready to step into the light.”
She was glad to hear it, yet she wasn’t fully reassured. “I want to believe that, to believe you, but . . .”
“I don’t for a moment expect you to have faith in me after only one evening’s evidence.”
“Does this mean you’re going to provide me with more proof?” she asked.
“That is precisely what this means.” He adjusted Lydia in his arm, so her head lay on his shoulder. She was limp enough to be asleep. “I plan to tell you about my time in the army, if you ask. I’ll tell you the good and the bad of our voyage from Ireland. I’ll tell you how many lasses I’ve kissed.”
“That last won’t be necessary.”
She adored the sound of his laugh.
“And I vow I’ll be honest with you about the drinking. I should’ve been before.”
“Have you gone a full fortnight without a drink before now?” she asked.
“Not in years.”
Even in the dim light of fast-approaching night, she could see pride in his expression. “Every time I said I was thirsty, Ian plied me with tea.”
“I like tea,” she said. “I might even have you over for tea now and then.”
“I would like that.”
They walked on a bit, an easy silence settling between them, which he broke after a while. “Dr. Jones said you have a new location for the inn?”
“A proposed location. I thought perhaps the stage company would be in favor of a spot as far north of town as we proposed south of town.”
“That seems a good solution.”
“I hope they agree.” She emptied her lungs. “Joseph sent a telegram, but he hasn’t received an answer yet.”
Patrick put his free arm around her shoulders and tucked her in, a kind and reassuring embrace. She needed that more than she’d realized.
“I’ll work as the Archers’ housekeeper for as long as I need to, but I’m holding out hope for my inn.”
“If you’re accepting votes, Eliza, mine’d be cast for you staying as nearby as you can manage for as long as possible.”
They reached the Archers’ house. While Eliza lit a lantern, Patrick carefully laid Lydia in her bed, tucking her in. He turned to Eliza, a look of uncertainty in his eyes.
“I have something for you,” he said. “It’s nothing fine or fancy, but I hope it’ll be of use to you.” He pulled from his pocket what looked like two very stiff child’s socks. “They ought to be about the right size. I remembered how big her feet were in my hand.”
“For Lydia?”
“The soles are six layers of canvas sewn together. They’re not as good as a real pair of shoes would be, but they’ll make it far harder to get splinters in her feet.”
“Oh, Patrick.” She took the precious little hand-sewn shoes from his hand, amazed that he’d made something like this.
“They’ll not do once winter arrives, but they should get you by until then. And it’ll save the little lass’s feet from a repeat of tonight’s business.”
“Oh, Patrick,” she said again.
“I made ’em while I was in the mountains sobering up. I thought of the two of you a lot while I was there, wishing I hadn’t caused you pain.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I don’t want you to think this is a bribe or anything. It’s not. I was just worried about her feet and wanted her to be able to run around and not get hurt.”
She held the little canvas shoes to her heart, so moved by the offering. “These and her doll. Your kindness to her . . .”
“I mean them to be kindnesses to you, too,” he said.
Throwing caution to the wind, she wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you, Patrick O’Connor.”
He held her for a long, drawn-out moment. And though she still had questions and worries, she found peace in his embrace to match what she’d felt weeks ago in his parents’ loft, and before that, when they’d looked after Lydia together.
She wanted to trust him. She wanted to believe in him again. She wanted to feel this warmth and safety once more.
She wanted him to stay.
But reality intervened as it often did. He offered his farewells long before she was ready. After he left, she sat in the quiet of her room, longing for him to return. Her heart was running far, far ahead of her wary mind.