Page 23 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

Meanwhile, in Clerkenwell

From the edge of Elm Street, Angus regarded the older terraced house he had called home for three years. Although the red bricks were stained from soot, it appeared in good repair. Compared to the overcrowded tenement room he had shared with nine other men during the time it took him to complete his apprenticeship, this was a huge improvement.

A castle, he thought with a chuckle, remembering his employer’s take on one’s housing. He supposed he would have considered it more of a castle if he didn’t have to share the house with another bachelor.

A fellow blacksmith occupied the two upstairs rooms while Angus managed the ground floor. At least, that’s how they had begun their tenancy. Lately, the second floor had been occupied by additional renters, the upstairs tenant having sublet his other room in an effort to make some coin.

The arrangement was no longer as acceptable as it had been. Lately, an unpleasant odor permeated the house, that of unemptied chamber pots and unwashed bodies.

At least Angus kept his own rooms neat and tidy.

The front room was furnished with pieces he had acquired from acquaintances or were cast-offs from former tenants. The back room, where he made his meals and slept included a small bed, a chest of drawers, a cabinet for dishes and pots, and a sink he had forged himself. Pegs poked out of the wall and held his winter coat and two shirts.

From his short time working for Darius Agremon, he had learned how to plumb the sink to drain the wastewater to the tiny garden behind the house. He might have created a pipe for incoming water, but the water pump was shared among all the houses along this stretch of the alley. Instead, he simply hauled water in a bucket and boiled what he needed for cooking.

When he bothered to cook.

Eating alone at home had become his least favorite activity of the day. Without a springhouse, keeping foodstuffs fresh was a challenge. Access to the cellar was on the outside of the house, which meant street urchins could—and did—help themselves to whatever they could find stored there.

Once he bathed, he headed to a nearby public house for a hot meal and an ale. While most workers bathed infrequently, he had been raised by a mother who insisted on cleanliness, probably because she seemed to possess a delicate nose.

Perhaps he had inherited her nose, for Angus found he was especially bothered by his own body odor. The older blacksmith who occupied the upper rooms did not share his predilection, so he was glad they rarely spent time in one another’s company.

Sampling the kidney pie the server set before him, Angus replayed the events of the day in his mind. From the first day he had worked for Mr. Agremon, he’d had the impression the man was somewhat eccentric. Over the course of the past few weeks, he’d decided the term was appropriate, for the older gentleman continued to baffle him with his extensive knowledge of mechanical devices, engines, and of steam.

He was also well-versed in plumbing—he had shown Angus the shower bath he had created in his bathing chamber and a flush toilet that delivered its waste into a buried container in his back garden.

“It’s full of holes,” he had explained, “So the liquids drain out into the gravel under it and then into the soil.”

Angus hadn’t asked about what happened to the solids. He had asked why, though.

Why, when everyone else simply tossed their chamber pot contents and wastewater out their windows or into the small rivers that ran through the city?

“Sanitation,” he had replied. “To mitigate the odors. And because my queen appreciates it.” He had arched his brows and then waggled them suggestively.

Companionship and sexual congress.

The words came unbidden, but Angus sorted immediately they did so because of those waggling eyebrows. “Mrs. Agremon must prove her appreciation quite often,” he murmured, not intending to be overheard by the server who delivered his bill.

“Who shows her appreciation?” the lanky man asked, his brows waggling much the same as Mr. Agremon’s had that day.

“My boss’s wife,” he replied absently. “To him,” he quickly added. “Not… not to me.”

Chuckling heartily, the server was about to leave his table but paused and said, “Sounds as if she’s a happy wife.”

Angus straightened in his chair. “Yes,” he agreed, deciding if he ever married, he would see to it he would do whatever he must to ensure his wife showed her appreciation.

Happy queen, happy king, he thought with a grin.

Chapter Eleven

Details over Dinner

Later that evening

When Stella rushed into the dining room an hour after completing her banking, Darius quickly set aside that day’s The London Times and stood from his carver at one end of the table. “I was beginning to think I might have to come rescue you from a bookworm,” he said. Although he had taken a shower bath, he had opted to dress appropriately for dinner in a navy tailcoat, scarlet waistcoat, and buff pantaloons. He even wore a cravat.

Breathless from her quick walk from where the hackney had dropped her in front of their townhouse, Stella wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him on the lips, which left him momentarily stunned.