Blacksmith Brides

by Amanda Barratt

  But Irish?

  “Look at these fireplace shovels.” Julia waved her over to a small selection leaning against the wall. Some simpler styles, while others sported intricate handles portraying hearts and vines. One spiraled upward from the base into an elegant hook at the top, a teardrop of bronze melded within. A matching broom stood alongside. A man who knew his craft.

  She brushed a finger over the smooth handle. “Very nice.”

  “Is that the set you would like?”

  “Should do adequately.” The need for a fire in her room was almost gone with the warming weather, but this would appease her sister.

  Julia motioned to Mr. Flynn, who stood in the doorway beside Charlie. “Can you set these aside, and I’ll have someone fetch them.”

  His head dipped with a nod, but his azure gaze remained on Esther, stirring the strangest sensation in her chest. “I hope they will serve you well, ma’am.”

  Esther refrained from shifting. “I’m sure they will.” She should tell him how beautiful she thought them, how much she appreciated the skill required. Instead, she opened her hand to Charlie. “Let’s be off.”

  He came obediently, but she wasn’t blind to the pat on the shoulder the blacksmith gave him as a send-off. Her core melted at the gesture. Most seemed eager to keep her boy at arm’s length, as though his ailment would somehow pass to them. A boy with a heart as big as Charlie needed touch, needed acceptance.

  The sun greeted them as they stepped onto the street, and Esther blinked at the noonday brightness, not allowing herself to look at the man who watched them from his doorway. Instead, she glanced to her sister. “When we’re home, I’ll give you the money to send. I see no reason for Father to take care of me as before I married. Charles left me a comfortable enough living.”

  “Nonsense. Father will not hear of you fritting away your living so long as you’re here. Besides, Mr. Flynn has a debt with father. Anything we wish from his shop is simply deducted from that amount. Don’t give it a second thought.”

  Esther held her reply, though she had no intention of backing down. She enjoyed her independence, and would allow Mr. Flynn the same. If he paid Father with the money she owed him, that was his right. Though what sort of debt would a blacksmith have with a doctor? Even if not as large a man as many of the blacksmiths she’d seen, the strength in his lean frame was impossible to ignore. Hard to imagine such a virile man sick. Perhaps a family member had fallen ill? For all she knew, Mr. Flynn was married with a dozen children. The Irish never seemed to do things by halves.

  After the milliners, Julia led her to the dressmakers where she hurried about selecting ribbons and gushing over fabrics. Esther looked on, commenting as needed. Charlie ran his free hand over the dainty laces and different fabrics while his other gripped the stone so graciously cleaned.

  A smile pulled at the corners of her lips at the thought of the kind gesture on her son’s behalf. Perhaps the Irishman had a houseful of children after all.

  “Madam Goshen is ready to take your measurements.” Julia beckoned her toward the curtain at the back of the room. “I’ll keep an eye on Charlie.”

  Seeing no other option, Esther crouched and squeezed her son’s hand. “Mama’s slipping away for a few minutes, sweetheart. Can you be a good boy for Aunt Julia?”

  He nodded enthusiastically, “I be good!”

  She kissed his head and joined the seamstress, who pulled a pencil from her bun, a coil of chestnut streaked with gray. While Madam Goshen measured everything from the length of Esther’s arm to the thickness of her waist, they discussed patterns and fabric. With Charles gone over two years now, both Julia and Father insisted she set aside her black and grays for more cheerful colors. She would relent with a soft violet, and perhaps a dark green or blue. All the while, she kept an ear attuned to the other side of the curtain and Julia’s chipper voice.

  Esther compelled her shoulders to relax. She was silly not to fully trust her own sister with Charlie. He was a good boy after all. Generally quite patient and well behaved. Coming home was the right thing to do.

  Final pattern decided on, Esther pushed through the curtains and straightened her hat. “I think we are ready.” And not a minute too soon. The day’s excursion left her exhausted. She glanced around for Charlie. Had he also gotten tired and found a place to rest?

  “Julia?”

  Her sister held royal-blue satin up to her chin while she gazed in a full-length mirror. “One moment. What do you think of this shade for my complexion?”

  The shade suited her fine, but where was Charlie? Esther walked around the table of fabric between them.

  “I usually stay with lighter colors, but this blue—”

  “Where is he?”

  Julia’s nose wrinkled. “Who?”

  Esther shoved past to search behind a display of ready-made gowns. Her heart skittered and her head spun. “Where’s Charlie?”

  Julia jerked as though waking and spun around. “I—he … He was standing near that display not a minute ago. I swear.”

  Perhaps, but he was nowhere to be seen now. Anger and panic flooded Esther with raging heat. She charged the door.

  Her child was lost in an unfamiliar city, among people who wouldn’t know him.

  Chapter 3

  The tinny jingle of the bell barely breached the clang of Flynn’s hammer. He paused only long enough to holler that he would be another minute. The copper glowed, begging to be formed. His tapping gentled as the swoop of the serving spoon thinned into the indention. Finally, it was cool enough to set aside though not ready to join the matching ladle he’d formed that morning.

  He pushed to his feet, but made it no farther. An inquisitive face stared at the half-formed spoon.

  “Where’s your mother?” Or the boy’s aunt, for that matter? While most children his age might wander the streets on their own or in bands, Flynn gathered from their brief meeting that Esther Mathews kept a tighter rein on her son.

  The boy pointed behind him but moved closer to the swage block. He reached for the utensil, and Flynn handed it to him.

  His mouth formed a large O.

  “Your name is Charlie, correct?”

  A grin broke across his face and lit his blue eyes. “I am Charlie.”

  “You can call me Flynn.” He extended his hand, and the boy took it, albeit briefly.

  “You make this?” Charlie’s full attention again settled on the spoon.

  “I did. But it’s not quite finished. Still needs a lot of smoothing.

  Folks don’t like snagging their mouths on barbs when they eat.”

  “I can … I can watch?”

  Flynn arched his neck to see into the storefront. No sign of the child’s mother. “Maybe just for a minute, and then we should ask your mother.”

  “Mama’s busy.”

  “I’ll bet she is. But that don’t mean she’ll not miss ya.” He felt his speech relax, the familiar accent returning. Something he never allowed around his customers. Something this child would not judge him for.

  The boy merely smiled. “She always misses me.” His eyebrows rose to tell half the story.

  Flynn couldn’t hold his own smile. “I can’t blame her.” He took the spoon and began tapping out the rough edges, a wave of loneliness seeping through him as though he were a boy again. How often, with night’s shadows upon the walls and sleep far from him, had he thought about his parents, wondered if they missed him as much. For the first few years, he had cried himself to sleep. He’d have done anything to go with his family, prove that he could be of use to them.

  “You … are very … strong.”

  “I’ve been doing this for a long time.” Over fifteen years ago he’d started as an apprentice. He’d not been much older than this boy.

  “I want … to be strong.”

  Flynn looked up from his work and saw something flicker in the child’s eyes. Something akin to determination.

  “Then … Mama won’t … worry so m
uch.”

  Setting the hammer aside, Flynn laid a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Worrying is something mothers do.” Nothing stopped that. His had worried about food enough for the younger children and Da finding work. Though Mam had little choice, tears stained her cheeks when they’d left Flynn behind. “We should find yours.”

  “Can I … come back?”

  “You’ll have to ask your mother. But you are welcome.”

  The faltering smile returned, and he lunged to wrap his arms around Flynn’s middle. Enough to knock the wind from his lungs—though not from the pressure of the hug. But from the heart of it.

  When Charlie finally released him, Flynn tried to speak but had to clear the thickness from his throat. “Let’s be off then.”

  Charlie slipped his hand into Flynn’s larger, coarser one, before leading the way to the front of the shop. With a glance up and down the street, Flynn tried to recall the colors of the gowns both women wore. All he remembered was the charcoal of Esther’s. The same shade of gray skirts hustled in the opposite direction, franticness in the movements.

  “Come on,” he urged Charlie and hastened after her. He had to slow his walk, so Charlie could keep up. Flynn was about to call out when Esther twisted around. She didn’t immediately see them, but the relief in her expression displayed the moment she did.

  “Charlie!” Instead of a reprimand, her arms engulfed the boy. Then her eyes narrowed, her gaze cutting to Flynn. “What are you doing with my son?”

  An accusation more than a question, but he kept his voice even in reply. “Looking for you. He wandered into my shop a few minutes ago.”

  “But why—?”

  “Why wasn’t someone watching him closer?” he countered. “Or maybe you watch him too closely.”

  “Mr. Flynn, I have no idea what you mean to imply, but I suggest you know nothing of the situation.”

  “What I mean to say, ma’am, is your boy is very—”

  Esther stepped in front of Charlie as though to block him from Flynn.

  “Curious, ma’am. Your boy is curious and attentive. I don’t mind him watching when he likes.”

  “I …” Her mouth fell open.

  “Good day, ma’am.” Flynn turned on his heel and started back to his shop. He doubted Mrs. Esther Mathews would bring her son anywhere near him again, and all the more’s the pity.

  Esther sat by Charlie’s bed long after he slept, content to watch the soft contours of his face and the rise and fall of his chest. Too easy to recall the fear of hours earlier, the panic of missing her son. She now knew better then to trust Julia with him—she had remained almost indifferent through the whole ordeal. And Mr. Flynn … Esther honestly wasn’t sure what to make of the Irishman and their exchange.

  Curious. Attentive. Two characteristics no one had ever associated with Charlie. Both warmed her and granted hope.

  A splinter of light angled across the room from the opening door and the lamp the housekeeper held. The light glowed upon her tawny skin. “Your father asks that you join him and Miss Julia in his office.”

  Esther leaned down and pressed her lips gently to Charlie’s cheek. “Very well,” she whispered. The office—not the parlor or the library. The office meant Father had something he wished to discuss with her. She was far too weary for more than a warm cup of tea and her bed, but she started down the great stairwell she had once raced up and down as a young woman, eager to throw herself into society’s path—or at least the path of any eligible gentlemen. Nothing seemed to have changed since then. Except her.

  Father hardly glanced up from the thick ledger laid across his desk. Julia sat straight-backed on an ornate chair upholstered in royal-blue damask. Stale pipe tobacco permeated the air.

  “You wished to speak with me?”

  Father pulled what appeared to be a letter over the ledger, and tapped a finger to it. “The boy is in bed?”

  “Yes, Charlie is sleeping.” She folded her arms across her stomach. Her father had yet to call his own grandson by his given name. Always the boy or that child. She held to the hope that given time he would begin to see more than Charlie’s ailment, but perhaps he never would. Always the analytical doctor.

  “Have a seat then. Julia was telling me of your excitement in town.”

  Esther sat in a chair matching her sister’s, only a small table holding a globe separating them. Charles had traveled extensively after Charlie’s birth and had insisted she accompany him. She and only she. Always, she had refused to leave her baby. She might have seen most of Europe by now, but she’d never regret her choice to remain behind. Only the distance that had grown between her and her husband. Only the animosity between them at the time of his death.

  “I have found the perfect solution.”

  Esther jerked her focus away from the globe to her father, who held a paper out to her. She stood to take it, unease rushing to her center. “Solution? For what, exactly?”

  Instead of answering, he waved for her to be reseated. “I know you feel you are doing what is best for your child, but it is not so. He needs proper care in a reputable sanitarium. I wrote to an acquaintance of mine in Richmond, and he is willing to take the boy.”

  Esther’s attempt to lower into her chair faltered at his words, and she almost dropped to the floor. She staggered to right herself and find her seat—about the same time his words fully registered in her head. She shot back to her feet. “No one is taking Charlie from me.”

  “Surely you see you are not fit to raise him. He’s not a healthy child, Esther. Will you spend your life playing nursemaid when you were born to so much more?”

  The same old arguments. She had heard them a thousand times from her husband and friends. Until they had all abandoned her. Charlie was the only one who stayed true, who loved her freely. How could they all expect her to give her own child away to strangers who couldn’t love him. Wouldn’t love him. She’d seen how doctors reacted. And nurses. Indifference. Disdain, even. They saw him as a problem, and their duty was to make problems disappear.

  “You have done everything you can for him.” Julia stood and moved to touch her. “You must see this is for the best.”

  Esther jerked away. “Whose best?” She slammed the letter onto her father’s desk, making him startle. “Yours, Father? You can’t stand the thought of people seeing him as your grandson. It’s only yourself your concerns are for.”

  “How could you say such a thing?” Julia sputtered.

  Father stood as well, hands pressing into his desk. “He’s not a healthy child, Esther. His heart. His lungs. Give him to someone who can see that he receives the care he needs.”

  “He needs me.” Esther stalked from the room and up the stairs. She made it as far as the room where her dear, sweet Charlie slept. Embraced in the darkness of his chambers, she sank to the floor near his bed. What if she was wrong? What if holding him close only hurt him in the end? The years of weariness and worry leaked from her eyes, tears for her boy as she continued her prayer.

  “Oh God, help me.”

  Chapter 4

  After tapping the narrow mandrel from the center of the newly formed rifle barrel, Flynn set both aside and stretched his right arm. His shoulder and elbow ached from the steady pace he’d kept all morning. All for two barrels. The work required of him loomed over his head, but the agreement had been struck, and he would see it done.

  Flynn slipped out the back to the well. A long drink of cool water and the breeze behind the shop worked to refresh him. In a few more minutes he would return to work. For now, he allowed his eyes to close and he leaned against the wall. Two faces rose up in his thoughts, as they often had in the past week. They pestered when he least expected. Esther Mathews standing like a she-bear over her young cub, and Charlie with his ready smile.

  Grunting the image away, Flynn downed the last dribble of water from the bottom of the tin mug and turned inside to stoke the fire. He had no time for wasting thoughts on a woman so removed from him o
r a child he could do nothing for. With his family’s wealth, young Charlie Mathews had everything he could ever want. Something most children never boasted.

  Why then did Flynn ache to give him more?

  Flynn shoved a flat slab of iron into the forge. Maybe what he felt was more akin to the desire for a family of his own—something he barely remembered anymore. A childless widower was the closest he’d had to a father after his own walked away, and it wasn’t until the last few years of Leighton’s life that Flynn had felt any warmth from him.

  The iron showed red, so he pulled it from the heat and laid it over the deepest curve in the side of his swage block. He laid his frustration into the iron. Even if he desired it, he could not afford to take a wife or consider a family until the debt was paid. He didn’t dare consider how long that might take. Most of his life, probably.

  Heavy blows began to curve the iron in on itself, and Flynn paused to insert the mandrel into the center to maintain a place for the barrel. Matthias Leighton, whom he’d apprenticed under, had lingered five years with failing health, Flynn keeping the smithy going and seeing to all his master’s needs. Unfortunately, the quality of the man’s work had faltered before he’d stepped aside, and his customers had gone elsewhere, taking their money with them. First, Flynn had only been aware of the doctor’s fees, but he had worked out an agreement. Business was picking up more each year, and he’d make good on the doctor’s patience.

  Little had he known of Matthias’s other deficits.

  Flynn pounded the iron with more fervency than needed. No wonder Dr. Allerton had insisted he add his signature to the loan. Matthias Leighton had died within the year.

  A shadow hovered near the door of the smithy. Long skirts. Dainty boots.

  One last strike and Flynn raised his gaze to the woman. His chest constricted with the strangest feeling. Bitterness? Remorse?

  “Mrs. Mathews.”