Page 38 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

“Can we drop you at your lodgings, Mr. Thompson?” Stella asked, when Mr. Stover appeared at the carriage door to ask as to their destination. “I noticed you didn’t drive your phaeton to our townhouse this afternoon.”

Angus gave a start even as his stomach grumbled. “There is not a horse available for me on Sundays,” he replied. “So I took a hackney. As for where to drop me, I think I should like to try a supper at the Oxford Arms,” he added.

Mr. Stover nodded. “The Oxford Arms it is,” he said before closing the door.

The coach lurched into motion a few seconds later, the streets and the interior of the coach falling into darkness. Angus didn’t care. He was lost in thought about Iris O’Connor.

Chapter Seventeen

A Young Woman on Her Own

Meanwhile, back at the Antiquarian Quill

Iris unpacked the last of the kitchen items and gathered some food in a snap tin for the next day’s lunch. Her usual custom was to eat half of it on her way to the market, especially if she was unable to secure a hackney or omnibus for the trip.

Her stomach grumbled, reminding her she hadn’t had anything to eat since a meager breakfast that morning. She almost regretted not accepting Angus Thompson’s offer.

Helping herself to the apple, she took a bite and regarded her new apartment with a critical eye. The windows could do with some drapes, and the floor needed a rug. Perhaps she would forego a deposit into her bank account that week in favor of using the funds to purchase some furnishings.

Before she quite realized it, the apple was gone and exhaustion had settled over her. She banked the fire on the first floor before moving to the upstairs room, her thoughts returning to Angus Thompson.

There had been a moment earlier at her old lodgings—the moment she had opened the door to the room she had shared with her brother—when she was sure Mr. Thompson was angry.

The emotion had rolled off of him in a wave that nearly had her taking a step back. At the time, she didn’t have the opportunity to consider it, especially when his manner seemed to suddenly change, and the Agremons were so quick to take charge and offer assistance.

Why had he been angry? Or had he merely been annoyed? Was it because he had been asked to help with her move on a Sunday, his only day off?

The thought continued to perplex her as she opened her trunk. About to pull out one of her pastel-colored muslin day gowns—she only had three that she wore for work—she paused. For the next six months, she really should wear her black gown in honor of her late brother.

Perhaps the flowers would show more brightly against the black crepe.

She allowed a soft sigh as she pulled a night rail from her trunk and removed the mourning gown she wore. Shaking it out, she looked for a peg or a nail on which to hang it. Finding none, she instead draped it over her brother’s cot, wincing when she realized both cots had been set up much as they had been in their room in the tenement, their heads against the back wall and well away from the windows. In between them, a candle lamp was lit and sitting atop her small wooden boxes. They had been stacked to form a sort of nightstand.

She grinned at how thoughtful someone had been to set up the cots and arrange her meager possessions so they would be ready when she retired. Although she originally thought to position her cot at the other end of the room, she was glad for its placement, for the building across the street was as tall as this one, and candlelight flickered in one of the windows.

Drapes would definitely be required.

Pulling bed linens and a pillow from the only carton in the room, she dressed her cot and shook out a blanket over her body before settling her head on the pillow. She sighed at the familiar scent of the linens.

Despite the move to new rooms, some things remained the same.

Sleep usually came quickly, but on this night, her thoughts returned to Mr. Thompson. On how his manner had changed so completely upon their introduction. After he had entered her room, he’d seemed determined to please her at any cost. Behaved as if he was beholden to her. Was happy to do her bidding. She was sure that if she had asked him to jump out of one of the windows, he would have done so despite the possibility he would have been maimed for life.

What had caused him to change his manner so abruptly?

He probably hadn’t been to this part of London before, where businesses such as publishers, bookbinders, bead shops, and bookstores flourished due to their proximity to St. Paul’s Church. Yet twice he had asked her to join him for a meal at the Oxford Arms even though it was apparent he had never been to the coaching inn before.

At the reminder of his invitation, a fluttering sensation passed through her abdomen, and she inhaled softly. Placing a hand on her belly, she wondered at the odd feeling. Her courses weren’t due to start for another week, and she had never experienced this sort of frisson before.

So what had caused it?

In an effort to recreate the sensation, she thought once again of Mr. Thompson’s invitation to dinner.

Nothing happened.

Scoffing softly in the dark, she continued to think of the blacksmith. What—or who—had Angus Thompson been expecting when he met her that afternoon? Did he find her attractive? Surely he wouldn’t have invited her to supper if he found her appearance lacking.

Or mayhap, he only wished for a new friend.