Page 6 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

“I shouldn’t…”

“My brother watched as I filled in the numbers,” she claimed.

The teller rolled his eyes, but he completed her deposit, at first pretending he couldn’t find her card.

“Miss Iris O’Connor,” she said, thinking perhaps he couldn’t read her printed name. Her penmanship was neat, though, the letters perfectly formed from the years of practice her mother had forced her to do.

“I found it,” he groused. His eyes rounded slightly at seeing the total on her bank card. “Make your living on your back, do you?”

Shocked at hearing his insult, Iris shook her head. “I sell flowers for the Joneses at Covent Garden Market,” she replied, her cheeks heating with embarrassment at what he had said. She watched as he marked the deposit on her card and handed her the receipt.

“Next time, be sure he does it,” he scolded.

“I will. Thank you, sir,” she said.

“Miss?”

Iris turned to discover another of the bank clerks coming towards her. “Yes?”

He pointed to the counter where she had left her brother, but when she looked, she discovered he was no longer leaning against it.

Jacob was on the floor.

“Oh!” she cried out. She rushed to her brother’s side, kneeling on the polished floor. “Jacob, wake up!” she hissed.

He mumbled something before saying, “Just leave me here.”

She glanced up at the bank clerk and noted his look of worry.

“Is he drunk?” he asked, anger sounding in his hoarse whisper.

“No, sir, he’s just… very tired,” she lied, knowing if she mentioned he was ill, the clerk might panic. “Is there someone who can help me get him to the gig? It’s only out front.”

Obviously not happy, the clerk waved to the footman at the door, and soon the tall man had Jacob up on the driver’s seat.

“Do you have far to go?” he asked, watching as she climbed onto the seat and attempted to arrange her brother, so he was leaning against her side.

“Not even a mile,” she replied, more concerned when she realized Jacob was wheezing, his every breath sounding labored.

The footman shook his head. “You’ll have to keep him from falling over,” he warned.

Iris’s eyes widened. All thoughts to drive as fast as possible left her head when she realized a single bounce over a pothole might send her brother flying from the gig. “Thank you for your help, sir.” She pulled a farthing from her pocket, wincing as she handed it to him. “For your trouble.”

He nodded, obviously happy with the gratuity. “Good day, miss.”

Setting the horse in motion, Iris struggled to keep Jacob from falling over as the gig turned to head west. When his breathing grew more labored, she tried not to panic, deciding she would take him to the only physician she knew of near their room in Shelton Street.

“Jacob, wake up,” she pleaded, feeling his body go limp.

“I feel terrible,” he whispered between wheezes.

“Do you think it’s winter fever?” she asked, thinking he might have contracted pneumonia. His body felt especially warm where he was pressed against her side.

“Influenza,” he replied. “I’m sure of it.”

Gripping the reins with one hand, Iris managed to press a palm to his forehead. “You’re burning up,” she said with worry.

“So thirsty,” he whispered.