Page 37 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

He made his way to the fireplace and set a few lumps of coal afire with the bit of kindling and one of the matches. Once he was sure the coal was lit, he straightened and once again regarded the room.

The windows definitely needed drapes. Velvet drapes. The floor could do with a carpet. Turkish, perhaps. The cot really should have been a four-poster bed with a canopy and a nightstand. There was room for a chest of drawers between the windows and a cheval mirror in the corner. A wardrobe on the long wall.

He glanced at the back wall, realizing there was no bathing chamber. That could easily be remedied, now that he knew how to plumb water and install a drainpipe. He would have to discover where the water line was located for the building—probably at the back of the building—and determine where best to feed the pipe through the exterior wall.

He imagined Iris in such a space, flitting about as she readied herself for a day at the market. Surely there would be a flower or two in a vase in the window. The scent of something floral following her about as she dressed.

I have to be at the market at four o’clock in the morning.

The thought had him sighing. Poor thing. It would be pitch black when she readied herself for work.

Noticing the two wooden boxes pushed up against the wall between the cots, he set about stacking them one atop the other. He placed the candle lamp on top, checking to be sure there was plenty of oil in the well. Then he unfolded both cots and set them up, so their heads were against the back wall. He thought to dress the shorter one with a blanket and pillow, but he didn’t dare open the only carton or her trunk. He would no doubt feel sorrier for the poor girl than he already did.

Instead, he made his way to the stairwell. Gripping the railing, he made his way down, his thoughts on how dark it would be for her in the early mornings.

“The fire is set upstairs,” Angus said, his gaze going to where Iris was unpacking the second box of kitchen items and foodstuffs.

“Thank you for doing it,” she said, pausing in her task. “You’ve been so generous with your time, Mr Thompson. Especially on your day off,” she added.

“It was my pleasure, truly,” he replied. He approached her and took her hand to his lips, much as he had seen Darius do with his wife.

Iris inhaled softly when his lips brushed over her bare knuckles.

“I believe it’s time we take our leave,” Darius remarked. “Miss O’Connor would probably like to retire soon.”

“Indeed,” Stella agreed. “You have your key to secure the front door when you leave in the morning?”

“I do, ma’am,” Iris replied, patting the side of her gown where she had slid it into a pocket.

“We’ll lock up behind us and ensure the bolt is in place for the back door,” Darius said as he followed Stella toward the stairs.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, and when you know what you’d like carved in a marker for your brother, will you write it down for me? I can work on it in the evenings.”

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

Angus paused before he descended the stairs, struggling once again to overcome his shyness with the girl. “Are you quite sure you won’t join me at the Oxford Arms?” he asked, the words coming out in a rush.

Iris nodded. “I do appreciate the offer, but I really need to retire soon,” she replied. “I fear I would fall asleep before the food was served. Have a good evening, Mr. Thompson, and thank you for all your help.”

Feeling a combination of relief and sadness, he nodded and followed his employer down the stairs.

When they were all seated in the coach, he remembered the comment about a marker. “Sir, may I ask to what you were referring when you asked Miss O’Connor about a marker? What sort of marker did you mean?”

Darius straightened in the squabs. “A gravestone. I thought I mentioned her brother had died a few days ago?”

Blinking several times, Angus felt ever the fool. Miss O’Connor had been wearing a black gown not because it was her Sunday best, but because she was in mourning. It was no wonder she had turned down his invitation to supper. Other than at her workplace, she probably shouldn’t be seen in public.

“The undertaker only made a wooden marker for the grave,” Darius explained. “I am of the opinion that graves should be marked with carved stone, so they are evident for several generations after one’s death.”

“I quite forgot, sir,” he murmured.

“Iris doesn’t have any other relatives here in town, which is why I knew she would need a place to live,” Stella explained. “She’s all alone.”

“Which is why we didn’t offer the space to you,” Darius added, his dark brow arching with the comment. “She was about to be homeless.”

“Of course,” Angus replied, glad for the dim light from the interior lantern. His embarrassment wouldn’t be so evident now that he realized his employer guessed he had been unhappy learning there had been rooms available above the bookshop.