Page 13 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

From what little of the interior she could see, she knew the squabs were covered in navy velvet. When the tiger closed the coach door, Stella noticed it was embellished with a crest painted in gold. Before she could sort its details, though, the coach sped off in the direction of Paternoster Row.

Patting her pocket, Stella realized she would need to go to the bank and make a deposit. She didn’t dare keep so much money on the premises—or on her person.

Remembering the soft buzzing sensation she had experienced in the gentleman’s presence, she realized she no longer felt it. She thought perhaps it was merely the excitement of selling so many books to a single customer—her first large sale since opening the shop.

Chapter Six

Banking Is a Bother

Earlier that day, at Covent Garden Market

Her eyes red rimmed and the hood of her mantle pulled up to cover her head, Iris left the room she had shared with her brother for nearly three years and ran almost the entire distance to Covent Garden Market.

She felt as if she were betraying Jacob by leaving his corpse alone, but she’d had no means of notifying the Joneses about his death. If she didn’t show up to the market to give Mr. Jones the deposit receipt from the day before, she feared he would assume the worst—that she had embezzled the money.

She had thought of sending a message with a caddie, but she doubted even the most desperate London street urchin would make the trip to Chiswick in the dark. Even if one agreed to do so, what proof would she have that he had actually delivered her missive?

Especially so late in the evening.

It had been hours after Jacob’s death by the time she had him laid out on his cot and his body washed. The physician’s wife had helped her, although she complained about there not being a table of suitable length available for the preparation of the body. Before they had finished, she mentioned Iris might sell the corpse since dissection was now allowed at medical schools.

Horrified by the suggestion, Iris insisted her brother would have a proper burial. “I’ll not have him put away on the parish,” she said, referring to a pauper’s burial.

By the time the woman had left, and the physician had been paid for his help, Iris was exhausted. She still had to return the horse and gig to the stable master, though. When she informed him of Jacob’s demise, the old curmudgeon refused to refund the remaining three days of prepaid rent. When she asked if she might use the equipage for the next three days, the man refused her request. “I don’t rent to chits,” he said.

Remembering the bucket with the leftover flowers, she pulled it from behind the driver’s seat, glad to see they hadn’t suffered from the harried ride through London. The blooms still appeared fresh. “Might you buy these flowers for your lady, sir?”

He grimaced, but asked how much and took the remaining stems from the bucket in exchange for three pence.

Despite the coins he gave her, Iris was feeling panicked.

She hadn’t kept enough funds from her wages to cover both the expenses of a proper burial and food for a week. Jacob had always seen to paying the rent for their room in the tenement. He also paid for the horse and gig for his daily trip to work, explaining that he did so because Mr. Miller reimbursed him for it as part of his pay—they used it to transport materials and to deliver furniture to their clients.

Mr. Miller!

She would need to send a caddie with news of her brother’s death to him. Perhaps he would give her any unpaid wages Jacob had earned.

A search of Jacob’s possessions uncovered a purse with only a few coins and little in the way of other valuables. She knew he didn’t have a bank account—he didn’t trust banks—so if he had hidden blunt anywhere in their room, she would need to find it.

In the meantime, to acquire the funds she needed for his burial, she would have to take a cab or an omnibus to the bank and hope they might allow her to make the withdrawal without a male relative present.

She had none. Her only uncle lived somewhere near Brighton, which meant she had no protector.

How long could she afford to remain in London?

Empty bucket in hand, Iris arrived at the market well before Mr. Jones. She saw to filling all the buckets with water, tears blurring her vision every time she thought of Jacob.

Hours before the sun would lighten the sky, Mr. Jones appeared. His usual chipper demeanor quickly sobered upon seeing Iris’s tears, though. When she explained why, he glanced around and frowned. “You should… you should take the day,” he murmured.

“Thursday is one of the busiest,” she reminded him. She fished the deposit slip from her pocket and handed it to him. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to make the deposit any longer,” she said. “Without a man with me.”

“Don’t be worryin’ your head about that,” he said. “I’ll just have to see to it when I’m in town is all.”

“So… you’ll keep me on?” she asked.

He shrugged. “You’re not the one who died,” he remarked. “So I can’t see how it would matter, but I’ll discuss it with the missus.” He paused, grunting softly. “We’re about to put a new greenhouse into production.”

“Another? For florals?” she asked in surprise.