Page 15 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

“I do not, sir. Please—”

“Then I cannot be of assistance,” he stated, although he displayed a pained expression.

“He took my money, didn’t he?” she asked, her voice rising in volume with her panic.

A few patrons in the lobby glanced in her direction. In her frantic state, her vision blurred by tears, Iris feared she might faint.

“I will speak with my supervisor, but I don’t think there is anything I can do for you,” he said. “You should take your leave and return with a male relative.”

As tears streamed down her cheeks, Iris made her way to the entrance. She had barely made it beyond the door held open by the doorman when she crumpled to the pavement, her keening cries interrupted by sobs.

Chapter Seven

A Rescue of Sorts

Meanwhile

The increasing traffic in Drury Lane Street had the hackney in which Stella was riding repeatedly stutter-stopping and lurching forward until she tapped on the trap door in the ceiling.

Late afternoon light briefly appeared in the opening until the driver’s face replaced it. “Yes?” he asked, his attention aimed at the street ahead of the horse-drawn cab.

“Pull over when you reach Southampton Row, please. I can walk the rest of the way to the bank,” Stella said.

“Right away, ma’am,” he replied.

From her vantage inside the cab, Stella wasn’t sure why the hackney had glass windows on three sides. The view to the front was of the horse’s rear end. Beyond that was the back of the horse’s head, its tattered mane tangled from the reins and the wind. She was reminded of the chariots in which she had ridden in Ancient Rome, before she and Darius had made their way to northern Greece to found a city-state. The main differences between that and this experience were the cab, which did at least provide protection from the elements, and a bench for sitting. And the position of the driver. His perch was high and behind the cab, which meant the reins sometimes rested on the roof.

It was at that moment she understood Darius’s determination to create a vehicle that could be driven by an individual and powered by an engine rather than a horse.

Other than in a bed, her husband preferred to be in control.

The errant thought had her smiling as the cab slowed to a halt directly in front of the Bloomsbury Savings Bank.

Stella stepped down from the equipage and paid the fare. With the recent repeal of the London Hackney Carriage Act, new rates and regulations had revolutionized the industry. With over twelve hundred of the carriages and cabriolets now in service, those who employed them could be sure of a fair fare and a cleaner cab.

She hurried to where a doorman stood, but she halted before he had a chance to open the door.

A young woman wearing a hooded mantle was pressed against the stone wall, her body folded so she was almost seated on the pavement. Sobs wracked her petite frame.

“Whatever has happened?” Stella asked the doorman in alarm.

His eyes rounded, as if he thought she was accusing him of being the reason the young woman was crying. “She doesn’t have a man with her, ma’am,” he said.

Stella furrowed her brows, not sure why that would have a woman crying uncontrollably. “Neither do I,” she said, about to go inside. Curiosity had her pausing, though. She turned and regarded the girl with worry. “What’s happened to have you so upset, miss?”

The young woman sniffled. “A bank clerk stole all my money. He closed my account,” she managed between sobs. “I made a deposit only yesterday,” she added, holding up a wrinkled slip of paper.

Stella briefly glanced at the deposit receipt and then at the doorman. “Do you know anything about this?” she asked.

Suddenly appearing nervous, the doorman glanced about before he said, “She was here yesterday to make a deposit. I had to help her with her brother. He, uh… he apparently died.”

“Here at the bank?” Stella asked in alarm.

“No, ma’am. Sometime after I got him onto their gig,” he said. “She’s here every Thursday afternoon,” he added.

“To make a deposit?” Stella asked, stepping aside to allow another person to enter the bank.

The young woman nodded. “I’m a florist for the Jones’ Nursery in Chiswick. I work at a stall at the—”