Page 41 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

My flower girl.

My blossom.

My bloom.

For the first time he could remember, he fell asleep with a grin of anticipation on his face.

Chapter Twenty

An Employer Shares Interesting Information

The following morning, Covent Garden Market

Breathless from her quick walk from where an omnibus had dropped her on Henrietta Street, Iris was all smiles when she greeted Mr. Jones at the market. He had already arrived with the usual selection of flowers and plants for a Monday and was in the process of filling buckets with water from a nearby pump.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” he commented, waving to her mourning gown. “Are you quite sure you’re of a mind to work today? I can do so if you’d rather… mourn.”

Iris shook her head and held out her skirts to the side. “I have cried enough tears over Jacob, but I fear this will be my daily gown for a time,” she said, sobering.

“You’re a good girl to honor your brother,” Mr. Jones replied. His forehead crinkled with worry as he asked in a hoarse whisper, “Has an undertaker seen to him?”

“Indeed. And he has been buried,” she acknowledged. “Also, I’ve moved into an apartment on Ave Maria Lane,” she added. “Courtesy of Mrs. Agremon.”

“Mrs. Agremon?” he responded with surprise.

“She owns a bookshop there. I mind the store for her for a couple of hours in the evenings in exchange for the rooms above the shop,” she explained. “Having done so Saturday afternoon and then moving in yesterday—with her help—I can assure you, I have the better end of the bargain,” she added.

“This Mrs. Agremon… is she a relation to Mr. Darius Agremon?” he asked, hoisting a bucket of water onto one of the shelves in the flower stall.

“He is her husband. I believe you know of him?” She busied herself with placing bunches of flowers into the buckets he had already filled, arranging them so their colors were a pleasing contrast for display. “I believe he is a frequent customer of yours.”

“Well, he’s… he’s a partner in the business now,” Mr. Jones said. “Paid to have our newest greenhouse built, although it’s only covered in oil cloth, since its purpose is to grow trees.”

Iris paused in her work and nodded to her employer. “I am aware,” she said. “Although, I thought he was an inventor.”

“As I understand it, he’s also somewhat of a botanist,” Mr. Jones countered. “He determined redwood trees would do quite well here in England, and to prove it, he paid for five hundred seedlings to be delivered from America.”

“Redwood trees?” she repeated, scoffing as she started the bouquets intended for the homes of aristocrats. She expected housekeepers to begin appearing around five o’clock, and a ready-made bouquet for a hall table commanded a higher price than the individual flowers to create it.

“We’re going to plant them and start selling them as saplings next year. Mr. Agremon is convinced he can double or triple his investment.”

“For trees?” Iris set aside the first giant floral arrangement and started another. Her initial assessment of Darius Agremon had been based on his late-afternoon appearance to buy a bouquet for Stella—a doting husband who wished to make his wife happy. Then, when she had been formally introduced to him only two days ago at the bookshop and had paid witness to how he had kissed his wife, she knew she had guessed correctly.

But never had she considered he might be a botanist.

“They’ll grow to become the tallest trees in all of England,” he claimed, filling another bucket with bunches of flowers. “I’ll be dead by then, of course—”

“Mr. Jones,” she scolded.

“—but mayhap you’ll see them as the majestic trees they’re meant to become.”

Iris inhaled softly. “Mayhap I will,” she replied, returning her attention to the bouquet she was crafting. “I do hope you intend to bring some here, so I can sell them. I’ve a number of customers with conservatories.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he replied. He cleared his throat. “You said something about the Agremons helping you move?” he prompted as he gathered the last of the florals from a small cart and stuffed them haphazardly into the only remaining bucket, much to Iris’s chagrin. She preferred a tidy display, and the mixed flowers weren’t as easy to sell.

“Indeed. They had a dray cart hitched to their town coach, and with the help of Mr. Agremon’s…” she paused, not sure how to describe Angus Thompson, “assistant, I suppose you would call him, although he’s really a blacksmith by trade—”

“That would be Mr. Thompson,” Mr. Jones stated.