Page 5 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

Saturdays were her busiest days, but they were also her shortest since all the flowers were usually gone by noon. Tuesdays and Thursdays were nearly as busy.

For a Wednesday, she thought she was doing better than usual. Soon, her older brother would come to collect her along with any leftover flowers and the week’s receipts and drive her to the Bloomsbury Savings Bank. There she would make the weekly deposit on behalf of the greenhouse, minus her wages. On Thursday morning, she would give the proof of deposit and the week’s receipts to the owner when he arrived with that day’s flowers.

Any other greenhouse owner might not have trusted her with their flowers and their money, but she had proven herself for the four years she had been employed by the older couple. She knew how to read, how to write, and how to do arithmetic. Despite being of an age to marry, she hadn’t given much thought to courtship, expecting that at some point her brother would see to a match for her.

Thoughts of Jacob seemed to conjure his arrival, for he appeared through one of the large open doors, a handkerchief held over his mouth and nose. She wondered if he did so in an effort to block the odors from the nearby butchers and fish mongers. The scents of rotted fruit and vegetables grew worse later in the afternoons, but Iris was rarely there past three.

She set aside her book and quickly gathered up the remaining flowers into a single bucket and hid the rest of the buckets behind her stall. By the time Jacob joined her, she had gathered the receipts into a folio and the coins into a purse. She stuffed the purse into the pocket of her gown and collected her book, a pressed flower marking where she had been interrupted in her reading.

“How has your day been?” she asked by way of greeting.

Jacob lifted the bucket into the crook of one arm. “I feel awful,” he replied.

Iris nodded to those who still manned their stalls as they made their way to the exit. “Awful because you’re ill? Or because you did something you shouldn’t have?”

“Everything hurts,” he replied, removing the handkerchief from his face once they were outside the market building.

“Oh, dear. Did you suffer an injury at work?” She would have encouraged him to slow down, but Jacob seemed in a hurry to return to his gig. A single horse, old with a terrible swayback, was tied to a post at the curb. A young street urchin stood next to her, his arms crossed over his chest as he guarded the gig.

Iris recognized the boy. He frequently offered to guard people’s carriages and horses should they need to leave them unattended. The farthing he demanded sometimes seemed a steep price to pay for ten minutes of his time, but never had a horse and carriage gone missing under his watch.

Jacob tossed him the coin, and the boy hurried off to the next equipage that had pulled over to the curb. “Pirate,” he complained, before he deposited the bucket of flowers into the well behind the seat. He visibly winced.

About to climb onto the bench, Iris instead moved to stand in front of her brother. Alarmed at seeing how pale he appeared in the afternoon sun, she said, “I think you’re ill.” Her eyes rounded at the thought he might have cholera.

“I told you. I feel awful,” he said. “But Mr. Miller says I don’t have cholera.”

“How does he know that?” she asked in alarm.

“I didn’t cast up my breakfast. He says that’s the first thing that happens. I’ll spare you the rest of what he described, because it was enough to make me think of retching.”

Iris’s eyes rounded in horror. Talk of cholera and the quick death that followed had been making the rounds at the market. None of the people who worked near her stall had gone missing, though. “I’ll drive,” she offered.

Before Jacob could put voice to a protest, she had scrambled up onto the driver’s seat and taken the reins in hand. He climbed up to join her, although much more slowly.

She set the old Cleveland Bay into motion for the half-mile trip to the Bloomsbury Savings Bank. “Did you come straight from work?” she asked. He had been employed by a furniture maker since the age of twelve, his carpentry skills improving to the point where he was tasked with carving moldings, chair legs, and table legs.

He nodded. “Mr. Miller told me to go home,” he said. “Right after I finished the molding for some bookshelves he’s been making. I think someone must be building a library, they ordered so many.”

The mention of a bookshelf had her smiling. “One day I’m going to order a bookshelf from Mr. Miller,” she said, thinking of the stacks of books she kept along one wall of the room she had shared with Jacob since their parents’ death.

Jacob scoffed softly. “I’d build you one, but…” He allowed the sentence to trail off, his eyes closing before he slumped against her side.

“Poor thing,” she murmured, glad when she had the gig turned to head north on Drury Lane. Given the time of day, the traffic was light, and she allowed the horse free rein until she had to turn onto Southampton Row.

She managed to find a place to park on the south end of Russell Square, very near to the door to the bank, before rousing her brother from his nap. “Wake up. You have to come in with me,” she said before she climbed down. She went around to the other side, realizing Jacob might need help stepping down. He practically fell onto her before he had his feet beneath him.

“I apologize, but I don’t think I can…”

She shoved a shoulder beneath his arm and led him to the doors, where a footman saw to opening it for them. She managed to make it to the counter where she had to complete a deposit slip, and Jacob leaned heavily against it. “I’m going to stay right here, if that’s all right,” he whispered.

She nodded, helping herself to a quill. Although she had counted the coins in her purse twice before leaving the flower stall, she did so once again. Collecting them into the purse, she moved to stand in line for a clerk. She didn’t have to wait long—a teller motioned her to his cage, but he frowned when he saw she was alone.

“I can’t help you unless you have a man with you,” he said, his manner gruff.

“My brother is right over there,” she said, motioning to the counter.

He huffed but went ahead with the deposit, finally handing her a written receipt after he updated the bank record for the greenhouse. She tucked it into a pocket and then pulled out most of her wages for the week. “I would like to deposit this into my own account,” she said, handing over the completed slip and half of the coins.