Page 14 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

“Trees,” he stated. “I expect they’ll be quite popular, especially when you tell our customers how tall they can grow.”

“How tall can they grow?”

“Over a hundred feet, mayhap two hundred,” he claimed.

“Thank you, Mr. Jones. I won’t let you down. I promise.”

“I know, Miss O’Connor.”

“I need to speak with an undertaker to make arrangements for Jacob’s burial. Might I do that on the morrow?”

“Yes, of course. You take the day. The missus can come with me tomorrow, and I’ll see you on Saturday,” he replied.

When he had delivered the last of the plants and cut florals, Mr. Jones bid her farewell and disappeared from the market.

Iris watched him go. Despite his words, her sense of unease grew throughout the day until she had sold the last of the flowers, well before three o’clock. Hopping on a horse-drawn omnibus headed east, she paid the fare and used the time to sort how she was going to convince a bank teller to give her some of the funds from her account. Perhaps the doorman would help her. She had given him a coin for his assistance with Jacob the day before. Would he be willing to help her again?

She approached the young man and dipped a curtsy. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but I wished to thank—”

“You,” he said, his gaze darting about as if he feared being seen with her. “I almost lost me job helping you yesterday,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

Iris blinked in alarm. “Oh, I’m… I’m so sorry. My brother… he… he died before we made it home,” she explained.

Although he seemed suitably chagrined at hearing her words, the doorman straightened and simply opened the door for her. “Welcome, miss,” he said, his eyes not meeting hers.

Realizing he was unlikely to act as a male relative on her behalf, she sighed. “Thank you, sir,” she said, before making her way into the bank.

A quick glance at the clerks who were lined up behind the bars showed the one who had waited on her the day before was on duty again. After she completed a withdrawal slip, she moved to the end of the line and squared her shoulders in an attempt to appear braver than she felt. She glanced around in the hope she might see someone she recognized. Instead, she noticed how several women on the arms of their husbands or brothers eyed her with suspicion.

“Where’s your man, miss?”

The bank clerk’s query had Iris inhaling sharply. “He died,” she blurted. “I need to make a withdrawal to pay for his burial,” she added, handing over the slip with her account information.

“Can’t help you.”

Giving a start, Iris scoffed. “Can’t… or… or won’t?” she countered.

“Can’t give you money if you don’t have any deposited,” he replied, his manner turning haughty.

“But I do,” she argued. “You know I do. I was here making a deposit only yesterday.”

He shrugged and aimed his attention on the next person in line. “Next,” he called out.

Iris opened her mouth to protest, but the clerk made a shooing motion with a hand, and a man was already moving to take her place.

Her heart racing—had the clerk stolen her deposit?—she glanced around in search of a manager. She found a young man seated at a desk near the entrance. He listened to her tale of woe and frowned. “I cannot help you, miss. You know the rules,” he said in a quiet voice. “A male relative must accompany you.”

“But… I’m an orphan. I have no father, and now I have no brother,” she said, her panic bringing another round of tears. “Surely you can help.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I’ll look up your account,” he said, taking the withdrawal slip from her.

Iris nodded and waited while he disappeared for what seemed an eternity. When he returned, he was holding a card. “It appears you withdrew all your funds yesterday,” he said. “The account is closed.”

Alarm had Iris gasping. “I made a deposit yesterday,” she insisted, rummaging in her reticule in an attempt to find the receipt. “For my employer as well as for my account,” she explained, relieved when she finally found the paper. “The clerk…” Remembering how his eyes had rounded at seeing her account balance on the card, Iris suddenly straightened. She turned to direct a glare at the clerk who had handled the transactions the day before. “He…” She held out the slip of paper she had been given as a receipt. “Did that cur take my money?”

The manager glanced at the paper and then in the direction of the line of clerks, but the one who had waited on her was no longer there.

“Do you have an uncle or a cousin who might assist you with this?” the man asked, evidently not sharing her alarm.