Page 26 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

“Of course,” she agreed, her gaze going to the footman. “Whatever is wrong, Ferguson? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I… I’m not in the market for a wife, ma’am,” he stammered.

“Well, that’s good to know. You will let us know when you are, though?”

Confusion suffused his face before the footman nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Darius chuckled as he watched the servant depart to the butler’s pantry. “Don’t you find it odd that two men of about the same number of years in age have such different attitudes about marriage?” he asked in wonder.

Stella pondered the query for a moment before she lifted her fork and said, “Nothing surprises me anymore.”

Studying the beef steak that took up most of his plate, Darius contemplated what he might do later that evening to counter her claim.

Chapter Twelve

Death Takes Its Toll

The following morning

Buoyed by the prospect of a new place to live, Iris began sorting her few possessions and those of her brother. She knew someone from the neighborhood would be happy to take his work clothes, but she decided to sell his winter coat, boots, and all the rest of it to a nearby pawn shop. A search of his pockets turned up more farthings but not much else.

When the sun lightened the sky, she wrapped the items in a tablecloth and carried the bundle over her shoulder to the nearest pawn shop. Although she received little in exchange for the worn items, it was enough to cover the cost of a black crepe gown, black gloves, and her transportation for a month.

After changing into the mourning gown, she set off for Miller’s Furniture in St. Giles High Street. Although she didn’t know if they could act as undertakers on her brother’s behalf, furniture makers—those who made cabinets—frequently did.

Iris found her brother’s employer surrounded by sawdust, a number of straight, wide boards stacked up next to a large saw.

“Can I help you, miss?”

She curtsied. “I’m looking for Mr. Miller.”

“Found him, you have,” he replied, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.

She squared her shoulders. “I am Iris O’Connor. I’ve come about my brother.”

His eyes widened when his gaze traveled the length of her mourning gown. “He’s ill, isn’t he? I thought he looked quite pale—”

“He died, sir,” she said, blinking back the forming tears. She couldn’t appear weak. She needed to be strong now—she was alone. “The night before last.” She scoffed softly. “I thought you have would have learned of it by now. I paid a caddie to deliver the message yesterday.”

Obviously stricken by the news, Frank Miller dipped his head. “I wasn’t here. I was… I’m so sorry for your loss,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” she said. “I wondered if you would act as the undertaker? I can pay you, of course. I spoke with someone who said it would be—”

“Five pounds,” a woman said, hurrying from somewhere in the back of the shop.

“Lucy,” Frank scolded. “This is Jacob’s sister. Have a care.”

The older woman looked suitably chagrined. “I suppose you’re here for his wages?”

“Lucy,” he once again scolded.

“I can pay you four pounds,” Iris stated. “I want him to have a proper burial in our parish,” she explained, directing her comments to Frank. “His body has been washed and readied,” she added, struggling to keep tears from falling. “I don’t know of anyone who would wish to see him before he’s buried.”

“We’ll do it for that amount, of course,” Frank said. “Although there will only be a wooden marker. A cross. We can etch his name into it.”

“I understand.”

“Lucy, see to it she has his wages from this last set of bookshelves,” he ordered.