Page 70 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

“When you’ve seen what they’ve done, you’ll understand why,” Stella said. “Oh, and I paid a call on my upholsterer earlier today. They’re working on the drapes for the third floor and will be here to hang them once the paint is dry—a few days at most,” she explained. “Mr. Thompson is making the drapery rods and claims he’ll have them done—”

“He has a pair almost finished,” Iris interrupted. She waved toward the door. “Mr. Agremon had him fetch me from the flower market since he sent him on another errand. Angus was quite excited about the project.” She grinned. “I didn’t have the heart to remind him that they won’t even be visible once the curtains are hung.”

Stella tittered. “I have a feeling Mr. Thompson will be sure the ends of the rods will be visible,” she said. “Now what’s this about an errand?”

Iris couldn’t keep the worry from her voice when she said, “Apparently carving the granite headstone is proving more difficult than marble. Angus says it requires chisels made from hardened steel, which he can make with his forge, but he has to go purchase Swedish iron from an ironmonger near the docks. I’m afraid this kindness is becoming quite an inconvenience for Mr. Agremon.”

“Nonsense. He enjoys a challenge,” Stella said and pointed to the stairs. “Go on up and take a look at your bedchamber. Let me know what you think.”

Iris grinned at hearing the word “bedchamber.” Never in her life would she have imagined she might one day have an apartment that would include such a large space dedicated simply to sleeping.

Bobbing a curtsy, she rushed up the stairs. The odors of creosote and wood-tar were strong when she emerged onto the third floor, but what she saw made her forget all about the smell. She stopped short and stared. For a moment, she wondered if she was in the same room in which she had spent her first night sleeping.

“You like it?”

She glanced up to see one of the painters perched on a ladder, brushes with two different colors of paint held in his hands. The walls were all painted the pale yellow she had chosen, but a marble effect had been applied with the use of other colors.

“It’s gorgeous,” she murmured in awe. She turned to discover the other painter applying white oil paint to the wood trim around the windows. Then she noticed the white crown molding at the top of the walls. “It’s so elegant,” she whispered, wincing when she imagined how poor her cot was going to look surrounded by such beauty. At the moment, it was in the center of the room but covered by a large tarp.

“Tomorrow we do Carrara marble for the first floor,” the man painting the window trim said.

“Carrara?” she repeated.

“White marble with streaks of gray, and little hints of black,” he explained, pinching his forefinger and thumb together.

“Tiny bit of blue,” the man on the ladder put in.

“It is good for hiding the cracks in the plaster,” the window painter explained.

“Oh, I hadn’t even noticed,” she murmured. If there had been any cracks in the plaster on this floor, they certainly weren’t evident now.

“Mrs. Agremon said she ordered the drapes, but they will need rods from which to hang them,” the taller man warned.

“There is a blacksmith making the drapery rods right now,” she said. “They will be black wrought iron with finials on the ends.”

The painter on the ladder made a sound of appreciation. “Molto bello. They will be perfect.”

“Si. Very Italian,” the other said.

For a moment, Iris felt faint and wondered if it was from the paint fumes or from the sudden sense of feeling overwhelmed. In the space of only a week, her entire life had changed.

Except for her work at the flower market.

That remained the one constant in her life. A sense of shame swept over her, since it could appear that Jacob’s death had been her good fortune. But then, she realized, Jacob wouldn’t have wanted anything less for her; indeed, maybe it was his spirit watching over her and bringing all these lovely things—and Angus—to her life. She sent up a quick and silent prayer of thanks.

“What will your husband think of this?” the painter on the ladder asked, waving to indicate the decorative paint.

Before Iris could answer, the man painting the window trim made a sound of derision. “He won’t even notice.”

About to tell them she wasn’t married, Iris recalled the conversation she’d had with Angus while he drove her to the market that morning. She giggled. “He is the one making the drapery rods,” she commented. “He’ll be as happy as I am.”

The brothers chuckled and continued their work as she made her way back down the stairs.

Now that she was alone for a moment and had a chance to consider what she and Angus had discussed, she hoped she wasn’t making a mistake.

For the next six months—that is, if the Agremons were in agreement—she and Angus would share the rooms above the Antiquarian Quill in secret. To those who asked, Angus would claim to live on the first floor while she occupied the second, intimating the floors were entirely separate living quarters.

Once her mourning period was over, and if she was still in agreement, they would marry. When pressed as to what might happen if he changed his mind, Angus was adamant that he would still wish to wed her.