Page 67 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

He allowed a wan grin as he fought the sleep that threatened to take him. “You. As my wife. In bed with me every night,” he whispered. “I know you have to mourn your brother, but I… I can wait.”

She was quiet for a time before she asked, “What if I can’t? Or… or what if I don’t want to?”

It was his turn to give a start. He remembered what Darius had told him earlier that night. “You would risk your reputation? Society expects you to mourn,” he reminded her.

“I will wear the mourning gowns Stella has given me,” she replied. “I will appear in public only to do my work. But… after I go up to my apartment, I should like to do so knowing you will be there.”

Relief and happiness settled over Angus, and he lifted her hand from his chest to kiss the back of it. “I love you,” he whispered.

“I know,” she replied, settling her head back into the small of his shoulder.

Angus chuckled and allowed sleep to take him, happier than he had ever been in his entire life.

Chapter Thirty-One

Painters, a Book, and a Bookbinder Bring Questions

The following day

Stella arrived at the bookshop mere moments before the Benedetto brothers pulled up in front, their dog cart loaded with ladders, tarps, several buckets, and a myriad of brushes and other tools.

She led the pair to the third floor, remembering Iris hadn’t been there since the morning before. Not particularly surprised to see how tidy the girl kept her rooms, Stella imagined how they might look once the painters were done and the drapes were hung. The floor could certainly use a Turkish carpet, but that would have to wait.

Over breakfast that morning, Darius had instructed Angus to make drapery rods for all four windows while he saw to carving the gravestone for Jacob. Despite his bandaged fingers, Angus seemed especially anxious to get started on the project, claiming he already had a design in mind for the finials that would extend beyond the edge of the drapes on either side.

While she moved the two cots, trunk, and makeshift nightstand to the middle of the floor, the painters hauled in their equipment and began covering the wood floor with tarps. The two looked as if they could be twins. “What should I call you?” she asked, when they didn’t offer their names.

“Raffaele,” the leaner one stated.

“I am Francesco,” the other said, bowing.

“You wish for the millwork in white?” Raffaele asked.

Her gaze went to where the walls met the ceiling, the ornate crown molding barely noticeable given it was the same gray color as the walls. The woodwork surrounding the windows was just as bad. “That would be lovely,” she replied.

“Yellow walls, is it?” Francesco asked, showing her the pale yellow Iris had chosen.

“Yes, that’s the color,” she replied.

“Marbled with white and ocher veining?”

Stella was immediately reminded of the golden-toned marble that had been so popular in Ancient Rome. “You can do that? Make it look like Nembro Gialetto? From Verona?”

Although Raffaele straightened as if in offense, Francesco’s eyes widened in delight, apparently impressed she knew of the soft-yellow-and-cream-colored limestone marble. “Is that not why you hired us?” he asked.

“Yes, I suppose it was,” she agreed. In reality, she had merely been in search of house painters. The colorman had recommended the brothers, apparently aware they had an opening in their schedule.

“Scagliola is our specialty. Marble walls. Inside and out.”

“Well, then, I look forward to seeing it,” she said. “Should you need anything or have questions, I’ll be down in the shop.”

“What are we doing for the walls on the second floor?”

At first, Stella was going to say, “Nothing,” but she paused. “Mayhap the same. Let’s see how this looks first.”

“Oh, but my lady, we do not have enough yellow—”

“But we have enough white and gray. A little black,” Raffaele murmured, his gaze on some smaller containers. “We could do Carrara marble,” he offered, waggling his brows. “Helps to hide the cracks in the plaster.”