Blacksmith Brides

by Amanda Barratt

  “Mr. Flynn.”

  Only then did he note the head peering round her full skirts with a full smile and dancing eyes.

  “What can I help you with?” Flynn straightened and wiped a rag over his wet brow. How must she see him dripping with sweat, his clothes stained? And she immaculate in warm brown skirts … and having the same effect on him as a slow sip of coffee. The warmth passed through him, slowing his thoughts, filling his chest. “I assume your earlier purchase was delivered and is satisfactory.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” She stepped into his work space, her gaze doing a thorough scan of the area. A small pucker formed between her eyes. “Charlie has spoken of little else besides his visit here. He’s been quite anxious to return.”

  Much more anxious than his mother, ’twas certain. She glanced at her gloves as though afraid to have already soiled them since her entry.

  “He is welcome to watch if he likes.” Flynn smiled at the boy and was rewarded with a grin. Sending the iron back into the forge, he stole another glance at the mother. Though no longer a debutante, she wore her maturity well, with a grace that suited her. Dark waves lay across her neck, mutinied from where pins held her hair at the back of her head.

  “Is there a chair I may use?”

  Her question pulled him from his musings. “You mean to stay and watch as well?”

  Her stoic expression was answer enough.

  “Very well.” He fetched her a chair from the far corner and placed it near the door for her.

  She scooted it farther out of sight from the shop’s door and windows before sitting, then guided Charlie onto her knee.

  Flynn set the glowing iron on his anvil and tried to ignore the eyes burning just as hot from across the room. Despite the back door being wide, the breeze seemed to have died. He inserted the mandrel and took his hammer to the curve of the iron, closing it in on itself.

  “What is that you’re making?” the feminine voice asked.

  “The barrel for a rifle.”

  “A rifle?” Her tone rose in pitch.

  “Aye.” He gave the iron another hit, though it cooled quickly now.

  “I thought your work above such. I see no other weapons on display.”

  “The contract I have is with a gunsmith and for the Confederate Army.” Removing the mandrel, he returned the iron to the heat, which allowed him a glance at his guest. Charlie appeared enthralled. Esther looked mortified.

  “Then you support the Confederates. And slavery.”

  His spine stiffened. “This has nothing to do with slavery.”

  “It has everything to do with slavery. The Confederation wishes to keep men slaves, and President Lincoln wishes for them to be freed.”

  “And you side with him, I sense?”

  “Any God-fearing man should.”

  “Including your father?”

  Her mouth opened then snapped closed.

  “So, your father is exempt from pandering to your belief.”

  “I didn’t say that….” She huffed out a breath, red rushing to her cheeks. “It’s not about my beliefs, but what’s obviously right or wrong.”

  Flynn shoved a log into the forge and pulled down the handle for the bellows. The fire swelled, sparks flying upward. Sweat tickled his neck and spine. “Obviously. And so it makes perfect sense why you came to live in your father’s home, being catered to by all his slaves while siding with talk of legislation against all that.”

  One look at her face, and Flynn knew he had misspoken. Anger flickered in her eyes, but they glistened with a sheen of moisture.

  “It is not my place to judge,” he sighed. “Simply consider that there is more than the issue of slavery to consider in this division between states. Freedom, ma’am. The states that have seceded and formed the Confederation want the freedom to make their own decisions as promised them when the Union of States was first organized.”

  The iron had heated as much as their conversation, and he removed it to his anvil then slammed his hammer down. Only to realize he had not yet inserted the mandrel and risked flattening the barrel.

  “Perhaps it is best we leave.” Esther pushed to her feet, standing her son in front of her. The boy looked from her to him as though trying to figure out what was happening.

  “No. Please. I did not mean to offend you.” He blew out his breath, wishing he could keep his confession to himself. “I am more a contradiction than you.”

  She didn’t move, probably waiting for further explanation. One he was not ready to give.

  “Let me show Master Charlie what I am doing.” He was ready to redirect the conversation before it buried him. He focused on the boy. “Would you like to see?”

  An enthusiastic nod was offered by Charlie—and the mother made no protest—so Flynn continued, explaining the role of the mandrel in keeping an even channel through the center of the rod. Later the hole would be smoothed and a groove edged in to encourage the bullet straight. The boy watched in fascination as Flynn demonstrated the swings that brought the sides of the iron to meet, and the use of the swage block. Even Esther’s expression relaxed and grew interested as he worked, making it hard not to wonder what it was she saw. A laborer doused with sweat? Or a man with the power to wield iron into something of worth? Able to be something of worth.

  Esther wished there were a subtle way to produce her fan from her reticule. Heat radiated through the smithy and not just from the glowing forge, or the glowing iron. The man … Perspiration soaked his shirt, making the worn fabric cling to the contours of his back and upper arms. His forearms, the shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, revealed the ridging of ligaments and muscles drawn taut with each precise strike against the iron.

  How different a man he was from any she had personally been acquainted with—if one could call this an acquaintance. The differences between him and Charles were wide and deep. Charles had also cut a slender figure in his perfectly tailored suits, but his hair had been sandy and his complexion white. Mr. Flynn, on the other hand, appeared almost as tanned as a mulatto, dark brown hair laid across his forehead. His eyes, however, were as pale as a summer sky at noon, and stole glances at her every few minutes. Did he conduct a similar analysis? Did he find her lacking?

  What does it matter? He was nothing more than a blacksmith, his place in society decidedly below her own. And an Irishman. A wonder anyone trusted him with their business. Charles had been very careful to avoid any interactions with his kind. And yet, the longer she stood watching him, the more self-conscious she felt. Esther sank back into the chair and allowed Charlie to stand by to watch on his own.

  When Flynn finally set the hammer aside, he explained how to tap the spike in the center out and return the iron to the forge.

  “That was very kind of you, Mr. Flynn.” Esther leaped at her chance to retreat, and set her hands on her son’s shoulders, ready to direct him from the smithy. “Say thank you, Charlie.”

  He cocked his head to look at her with pleading eyes. “I want … to stay.”

  “We mustn’t impose too long upon Mr. Flynn’s hospitality.”

  “The boy is no trouble.”

  Esther felt a renewed wave of heat climb her face. He made no mention of her own presence. “Thank you, sir, but I have errands to attend to before returning home.”

  Flynn leaned his hip into the anvil and crossed his arms in an all too relaxed manner. “Leave him here then.” His focus lowered. “How old are you, lad?”

  Charlie held up both hands, fingers splayed.

  Esther tucked one finger down for him.

  “Not much younger than when I began my apprenticeship in this very smithy.”

  Esther snapped upright. “Excuse me, sir, but—”

  “I wasn’t implying that he become an apprentice. No doubt you have a much loftier goal for the lad.” His jaw tightened and his eyes glinted. “I only suggested he be old enough to stay and watch.”

  “I understand what you mean to say, but my son …” is not li
ke other boys. She clamped her teeth onto her tongue.

  Flynn stared her down as though daring her to voice her thought. “If he wishes to stay for a little while longer, he’s welcome.”

  Shame for her unspoken words and the pleading in Charlie’s eyes stacked upon her conscience. She couldn’t force him away. And she’d already declared she couldn’t stay. But to trust this man, a stranger, with her son, when even her family, friends, and trained nursemaids had failed …

  “It’ll be all right.” The urge came with a gentleness unexpected from a man of such coarseness.

  “You’re sure?” She searched Flynn’s face for any reason to fear to take Charlie despite his protests.

  “I am.” An easy smile curved the blacksmith’s mouth. One she wanted to trust.

  Even still, her hands trembled as she crouched and turned Charlie to her. “You sit down here and mind Mr. Flynn. And don’t leave until Mama comes for you. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  The grin on his face broke through her. “I’ll be … really good, Mama.”

  “That’s my boy.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead, lingering for a moment longer before finding the resolve to walk away. “I’ll be right back.” She willed herself not to look over her shoulder.

  An impossible feat.

  A few minutes later, Esther paced outside of the dressmakers. She was due for her first fitting, postponed because she could not trust to leave Charlie for that long. How could she do so now? She looked back toward the smithy, unable to calm her mother heart. Not until she saw for sure how her son fared with Mr. Flynn.

  Instead of heading to the front where the bell would warn the man of her return, she slipped between the buildings into the alley behind. Three men with stained beards and dirt-ridden aprons loitered, arguing about whether or not Virginia should secede with the other southern states—a common topic now. They eyed her as she hurried past, and her pulse skittered. Despite the brightness of day, unease pressed her faster. Weeds grew without care as did piles of forsaken tools and refuge. She hardly allowed a breath until she reached the back of the smithy. The tat of hammer at work eased her steps. She approached the open door from an angle, attempting to remain out of sight.

  “Well done.” Flynn’s voice rumbled.

  She peeked around the corner to spy her son, coat removed, bearing a small hammer. He tapped it against a thin sheet of steel laid across the anvil. The barrel Flynn had been working on was laid aside, its glow diminishing.

  “Good.” He patted Charlie’s back, and Esther could almost see the light beaming from her son’s face, though mostly turned away.

  She leaned back out of sight. Why couldn’t Charles have been as encouraging of his son as this stranger? Not that he’d ever spoken cruelly … he simply never said anything. He’d avoided. He’d run. Abandoned. And asked her to do the same.

  Charlie’s laughter flitted through the open door, a balm over old wounds she no longer wished to dwell on. Her husband had made his decision, and now he was gone. She could only imagine what he’d say to his offspring learning a trade, even for a day. Never mind her own father’s disapproval. But her son was happy, he was learning, and he was accepted. For now, that was all that mattered.

  Taking a deep breath, Esther turned from the smithy. She would hurry with her fittings, and make sure Flynn was well compensated for his time.

  Chapter 5

  You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

  Esther glanced up from the newspaper as her father entered the library. So much for a few minutes of peace. Not that the paper had added much peace with talk of political estrangement between the North and South. South Carolina had already seen battle at Charleston. Fort Sumter had fallen to the Confederates. War was no longer a possibility, but a reality. Though nothing made her quite as distressed as her beloved Virginia. Two days ago, they had abandoned the Union. Secession.

  “Esther, are you listening?”

  She set the newspaper aside, knowing her father felt quite differently about current events. “I’m sorry?”

  Father huffed out a breath. “You never let the boy out of your sight. You have buried yourself in his care, wasting your life.” He stalked across the room and dropped into his large upholstered chair before reaching for his pipe. “It’s affecting your health. You’re exhausted.”

  Which was why she longed for a quiet moment to herself. Her head and feet ached, and Charlie had not gone to bed easily. Still too excited about his time with the blacksmith, the fourth time they’d taken advantage of the man’s patience. Since leaving him there while she finished her fittings a week earlier, Charlie couldn’t go a day without begging to visit, and it was becoming harder and harder to deny him. She’d had to pry a rough-hewn spoon from her son’s hand after he’d fallen asleep.

  “I wish you would reconsider—”

  “Father! I have already given you my answer. Please do not mention it again.” As exhausting as his care could be, the thought of being separated from Charlie, of her boy being handed over to strangers … She shuddered while her heart constricted. “I know what’s best for my son.”

  Father murmured something as he lit his pipe and stuck it in his mouth. “At least leave him long enough to attend some social events with your sister. All I hear from Julia is how disappointed she is. That boy’s care is too much for one person.”

  Yes, it was. Being able to step away for a few minutes was becoming a glorious reprieve. Then to return and see Charlie beaming with pride at his creations. And the twinkle in Flynn’s eyes. Despite the brawn of the man, he had such gentleness when it came to her son. He didn’t seem fazed by Charlie, that he wasn’t like other boys. It was as though she’d finally found a kindred spirit—disguised in sweat-stained clothes, a crooked smile, and blue eyes.

  “Esther, have you heard a word I’ve said?”

  She jumped and looked back at her father who frowned at her past his smoking pipe.

  “Dr. Kirkbride is a leader in his field, and the superintendent of the Pennsylvania Asylum for the Insane.”

  “Charlie is not insane!”

  “He’s ill. Both physically and in his mind. Even you can’t deny that.”

  Oh, that she could. To pretend everything was all right with her little boy. What if her attempts to protect him kept him from the medical care he needed? Her lungs felt constricted by an invisible weight, one that grew, year by year, along with Charlie.

  Esther stood and walked to the far side of the room and the wall of books, thousands of stories and facts that her boy might never read. She’d tried to teach him, even hired tutors. She sighed and pressed her hands down the front of her full skirts. “Only you are allowed to examine him. Charlie’s been seen by others, ones who couldn’t care. But he’s your grandson, and my child.” Esther turned and faced her father. “Please …” Love him.

  He seemed to consider. “I’ll examine him. And you will attend tea, or whatever other event your sister was upset about tonight.”

  She chafed under the firmness of his voice. Just because she had come home did not mean she intended to place herself back under his thumb. In the years she’d been away, she’d forgotten how controlling he could be. So long as she was under his roof … “Very well.”

  The next morning, dark blue hung in the sky when Flynn pushed the back door wide and then hauled a load of coal to his forge. The embers still glowed from when he’d finally succumbed to exhaustion the evening before and stumbled up the stairs to the small loft room and the lumpy mattress he called his own. He could have collapsed on the floor downstairs and slept as heavily. Just enough to take the edge off. At the first cock’s cry, Flynn rolled to his knees to ask God to bless the day and his work. He didn’t usually give the Lord much thought, but if he was going to get everything done, he needed help. Gaining his feet took a little more effort, but it would be worth the pain.

  The flames soon burned hot, and Flynn thrust his iron into the coals. While he waited for the rod to
heat, he chewed on bread left over from yesterday. A little crustier than Flynn liked, but he had no time to worry about that. The morning melted away to the clang of his hammer and the spray of sparks.

  “Excuse me.”

  Flynn jerked around to Esther Mathews, Charlie at her side with his usual smile in place. Flynn wasn’t sure why, but the look on the boy’s face warmed him beyond the work or the flames. As the boy released his mother’s hand to wrap a hug around Flynn’s torso, that warmth penetrated deep into his chest.

  “Morning to you, Master Charlie.”

  The boy grinned up at him, and Flynn tousled his hair.

  “Mr. Flynn!”

  Flynn glanced to Esther and her pout of protest then back to the boy who also looked concerned at his mother. Flynn stepped away, pushing Charlie to arm’s length. “You best keep your distance,” Flynn told him. He’d donned clean clothes this morning, but they were already moist with perspiration, and his heavy leather apron had been dusted with soot.

  “No, it’s …” Esther waved toward the child’s head. “His hair.” She stepped closer to comb the wayward locks straight.

  “Oh.” Flynn wasn’t sure what else to say. Fingers through his shaggy mane was about all the grooming his hair got in the morning.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She looked up, large eyes holding such sadness … and just a little bit of something else. A tenderness no doubt meant for her son. “Thank you for being kind.”

  “I—” Flynn raked his fingers through his hair, suddenly self-conscious. The way this woman looked at him sent an unfamiliar sensation through him. His head had been turned by a pretty face before, but this was different. She was different. And the direction of his thoughts needed to be severed immediately.

  Easier said than done as roses bloomed in her cheeks. She stepped back. “Charlie was wondering if he could watch for a little while today. You needn’t stop your work for him. He’s promised to sit in the chair and watch you. I’ll also reimburse you for your time.” She ran her hands over her already smooth skirt the color of the Emerald Isle itself. “I should have offered that earlier. I’m sorry.”