Hope Springs by Sarah M. Eden

”
    Biddy stopped at the side of the road. She slumped under an invisible weight. “I’m to have a baby, Katie. Toward the end of winter.”
    “But this is good news, is it not?” Katie couldn’t at all tell just by looking at Biddy.
    “We were so happy when we realized.” Biddy rubbed at her own arms. Katie wished she’d brought shawls or something as a shield against the constant wind. “We lost a little one to the fever all those years ago, a sweet little girl, in age between Michael and Mary. There’s been such an emptiness in the home since then. Not that this babe will ever take little Fíona’s place, but we were so happy at the thought of another.”
    “And that’s changed?”
    Biddy began walking again, something like pacing but all in the same direction. “Mary’s shoes are falling to bits. Michael’s outgrown his coat. Ian has a very long and difficult time ahead of him. And I have a wee babe inside depending on me. There’ll not be any extra money coming in this year. We’ll be fortunate if we can purchase the seed we need for next year and make our payment on the land.”
    “Surely Joseph would give you more time to pay him.” She knew for certain he would—had heard him say as much, in fact.
    But Biddy was already shaking her head. “I cannot ask him to do that.”
    “But he would. ”
    “Too much depends on his control over the farms here. Undermining that would put us all at risk.”
    Katie walked with Biddy a while longer, grateful when she saw some calm return to her expression. She was understandably exhausted and overwhelmed, but talking of her worries seemed to have helped. Katie only wished she could do more.
    She didn’t know how much Ian and Biddy’s payment was on their land. Perhaps she had enough in her savings to make it for them, or part of it at least. But would they even accept her help? She knew enough of Irish stubbornness to doubt it very much. And what would she live on if she spent every penny she had? She and Granny Claire would be in dire straits without money. Neither of them had paying jobs. Katie’s baking hardly covered its own costs. How many others on the Irish Road were looking ahead with fear?
    She didn’t sleep much that night. Too many heavy questions weighed on her. She lay on her bedtick, staring into the darkness.
    What am I to do, Eimear? she asked her long-dead sister. There’d never been anyone else to listen to her worries over the years. But Eimear never had answers for her, and, in that moment, she needed an answer badly.
    “How do I stop a greedy and hateful man from robbing his neighbors?” She whispered the question into the night.
    It was late and the night was very cold. Otherwise, Katie would have slipped outside with her fiddle, letting the music clear her thoughts. Playing inside was out of the question with Granny sleeping so nearby. She closed her eyes and quietly hummed. “The Dear Irish Boy.” “Abigail in Breitamain.” She had hummed twice through “Éamonn a’ Chnuic” when an answer began to formulate in her mind.
    It started as little more than a breeze of memory, a conversation she couldn’t quite recall. She’d spoken to Joseph about Mr. Johnson and his prices. He’d managed to talk the merchant down from a price increase by loaning him money.
    Katie sat up, searching her mind for the rest of it. Weariness and worry slowed her thoughts.
    “I needed the flour price to remain the same,” Joseph had said, “so I discovered something Johnson needed just as much.”
    That was the key. If she could trade on something Mr. Johnson needed—more than he needed to put the Irish in their place, to punish them for existing—she might convince him to bring the prices back to where they’d been and to not raise any others over the winter.
    But what did he need? What could a man with an entire mercantile at his disposal possibly need?
    The words came clear and precise.
    Help wanted.
    Mr. Johnson needed an employee. Based