Page 17 of Valley of Dreams

“Help, anyway.” Patrick felt suddenly out of his depth. He was offering something to the family he’d abandoned. It was presumptuous of him. But what else did he have to give? “I don’t have many skills. But I can build.”

“We’ll have to talk to Cecily,” Finbarr said. “And to Joseph when he returns.”

Patrick didn’t know who Cecily was, but if she was the key to him having a purpose in Hope Springs and among his family, then, by the saints, he’d talk to her.

Chapter Five

Eliza felt rather likea sneak thief rambling around the house of a family she’d never met. Maura had spent two days showing her around and explaining what would be expected of her. Now, her third day in Hope Springs, she was on her own in her new position.

Without the family in residence, she hadn’t a tremendous amount of work to do. Little of what she did each day was undone the next. That left ample time for settling into her room and acquainting Lydia with her new surroundings.

She walked the little girl to the sitting room for the fifth time that afternoon. “Where’s Lydia’s room?”

They’d played this game for three days. If the girl could navigate the house easily before the family’s return upended her, that would leave one less adjustment for her to make at the same time.

Lydia hooked her finger over her lip and pointed toward the door to the dining room, which they had to pass through to return to the bedroom they shared.

“Let’s go to Lydia’s room,” Eliza said.

She followed the girl all the way back to their shared quarters.

“Lydia’s room,” Eliza said, motioning around them.

“Woom.” That was close enough.

They played “find Lydia’s room” from spots both inside and outside the house, even from as far away as the barn. Each time, the little girl easily found her way back. That set Eliza’s mind at ease.

The day was lovely, with a pleasant breeze blowing. After they finished the final round of their game, Eliza opened the bedroom window and let in the cool air.

“We’re going to make you a bed,” she said.

“Bed.” Lydia tried to climb onto the bed they’d shared the past two nights. The arrangement was not working well at all. Eighteen-month-old feet kicking her all night was not endurable.

She set Lydia on the bed with a “doll” Eliza had made out of a handkerchief. It was the only toy her daughter had ever had, but she enjoyed it.

“Bed,” Lydia said, apparently to her handkerchief doll.

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