Hope Springs by Sarah M. Eden

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