Blacksmith Brides

by Amanda Barratt

  “What do you think?” Flynn asked, showing him the piece. “Do you think it’s straight enough?”

  “Looks straight. Very straight.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” He leaned the hollow iron rod against the wall and glanced to the door—no sign of Esther—then at the small timepiece in his trouser pocket. Already after three. She’d been gone more than two hours, and his stomach pinched as he’d been too busy for lunch before Charlie’s arrival. She’d never left him for more than an hour at a time and always returned well before she said she would. Had something happened?

  He looked to Charlie’s expectant face and sighed. He’d learned a man had to feed his body well if he wanted to survive this business. Flynn waved for Charlie to follow him. “Let’s go find something to eat, shall we.”

  The boy’s face brightened, and he shoved to his feet, quickly taking up the path behind Flynn, who led up the steep stairs to the room above. More of a loft, really. The ceiling sloped toward his bed. Two chairs sat with a small table on the opposite side of the room. Ironic that some of his best pieces of work were elegant tables and chairs of iron and brass, and yet his own furnishings had been constructed from wood.

  “Welcome to my home, Charlie.” He waved the boy toward a chair while he moved to the counter where a fresh loaf of bread from the bakery down the street waited for him along with the chunk of cheese he’d been eating over the past two days. He kept his meals simple during the day to save time and money.

  “I wish I … lived here.”

  “What?” Flynn glanced at the boy standing in the middle of the floor. “I’d think you would enjoy living in that big house with all those grand rooms. I bet your bed is twice the size of mine and ten times more comfortable.”

  “They don’t … They don’t like me.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Flynn brought the bread and cheese to the table along with a knife.

  “Family. They never … talk to me. Don’t look at me.”

  Flynn set the food aside and stepped to Charlie, wrapping an arm around him. The boy returned the embrace and buried his face in Flynn’s side. “They just don’t know you as I do. They don’t know what a good boy you are.”

  Flynn slipped to his knee, now eye to eye with the child. “You know what I think?”

  Charlie shook his head.

  “I think you are the closest friend I’ve had in a long time. Maybe ever.”

  Arms wrapped his neck. He returned the hug, soaking up the warmth like sunbeams through a morning window. This child had somehow dug his way deep into his heart.

  “Mr. Flynn?” The feminine call was followed by footsteps up the stairs.

  Flynn pulled away from Charlie and started for the doorway, arriving the same time as Esther.

  “Why aren’t you in your shop?”

  “I have to stop for dinner sometime.”

  “Dinner? It’s halfway to supper.”

  He smiled, and her argument stopped.

  “I didn’t mean to be away so long.” Esther brushed past him, tipping her chin away. She hurried to Charlie and pulled him to her, hand lingering on the nape of his neck. She pressed his head closer and shut her eyes a moment. A droplet glistened on her lashes, but she swiped the evidence away.

  Flynn proceeded carefully. “He was about to join me for some bread and cheese. Both are fresh. I don’t suppose you would want to join us.”

  “I—no. I should get home. It’s been … a long day.” Her shoulders slumped as though to confirm her statement. A glance at him revealed the red in her eyes.

  “Has something happened?”

  She shook head, but her chin trembled.

  “Mrs.—” That was as far as Flynn got. He had no right to speak her Christian name, but the other sounded so stiff, so distant when all he wanted was to offer her friendship and an ally. “Esther.”

  Her glistening eyes widened. “I—” She looked at Charlie and shook her head. “I can’t.” She mumbled something under her breath and started past him toward the door, Charlie’s hand secure inside her own.

  The boy staggered behind her, trying to keep up, his eyes concerned when he glanced back at Flynn.

  Their feet echoed in the narrow stairway. Flynn groaned. He couldn’t let her leave like this. He jogged down the steps, two at a time despite their steepness. She jerked around as soon as she reached the workshop.

  “Wait. All I wanted was for you to know you have a friend. If you ever need anything.” Flynn clamped his mouth closed against the desire to spout a lot more than friendship. She stared at him with moist eyes. Against his bidding, his went to her equally moist lips. He took another step, under the sudden urge to pull her into an embrace, to let her cry in his arms.

  “Thank you … Mr. Flynn.”

  His surname hit him like a hammer, leaving him immobile while she made her retreat. What had he been thinking? Why would she need him? She had a fortune and a family and a house on a hill. While he had this meager shop and enough debt to drown a man. The only thing that burned more than her rejection was what little remained of his pride being smelted away, leaving the raw bones of hurt.

  Chapter 8

  Esther couldn’t seem to catch her breath. She sat on the edge of her bed staring at the intricate handles of her ash broom and shovel. Friendship. That is what he offered. And she’d run.

  Friendship with an Irish blacksmith. The thought was laughable!

  Yet she didn’t feel like laughing. Not even a little. She’d wanted to melt into his arms and cry away the hurt on the shoulder of someone who understood.

  A tear trickled down her cheek, and she dropped back onto the mattress. The tear redirected its course toward her ear. She was a grown woman, a mother, a widow—someone who should be in control of her life—or at least her emotions. She shouldn’t want to huddle into a ball under a quilt and weep like a child.

  Another tear.

  She swatted at it and pushed to her feet. No more wallowing in self-pity or confusion. Esther straightened her nightgown. The house slept, allowing her freedom. She stole downstairs and into the library. The flame in her lamp sent a warm glow against the spines of books lining the walls. As a youth, she had never ventured into this room on her own. Books were boring, and she hadn’t the patience to discover their secrets. In the past few years, they had become her closest friends. Oh, how she’d needed a friend.

  The tender glow in Flynn’s eyes again assaulted her thoughts. What was wrong with her? How could she possibly consider him?

  “It’s only friendship,” she whispered in argument. It wasn’t like she contemplated a more intimate relationship. Charlie loved spending time with him and was happier on the days they visited the smithy. What did it matter what people like Mrs. Hurst or Miss Johnson, or even Julia, thought of her relationship with the blacksmith?

  Esther turned her back on the library. Her head was in too much of a spin to sit down and enjoy a novel. She walked instead to her father’s office. He had examined Charlie almost a week ago, and she still hadn’t found the nerve to listen to his prognosis. Easier to avoid him than what she was sure he would say—what everyone else had said.

  Damaged brain. Sickly. Addled.

  Yet growing uncertainty wrestled in the back of her mind. Charlie was all that mattered and what was best for him, that he received the care he needed.

  Deep breaths steadied her while she crossed the thick rug to his large mahogany desk. Several stacks of folders and papers sat on the polished surface. He’d never been much for organizing his papers. Would she even be able to find his notes on Charlie?

  She set the lamp on the desk and turned up the wick to better see the ink scrawlings across the documents and ledgers. Esther flipped through them, seeking her son’s name. Guilt prickled at the names and private information she unwittingly gleaned. She shouldn’t be here.

  Esther straightened the papers back into piles and reached to flip a ledger closed when a name caught her in midmotion. “Thomas Fl
ynn.”

  Thomas?

  Could that be her Flynn? Or … um … the blacksmith? She skimmed down the page, slowing with each line she read. This was absurd! How could a blacksmith possibly be indebted to a doctor close to six hundred dollars? Surely not a mere medical fee. And that was paid down from … She scanned upward. Six hundred and forty-nine dollars. He had already been working to repay the amount for three years.

  She quickly tallied. At the rate he was repaying her father, he would be indebted for quite a number of years. Decades. Nausea turned her stomach, and she slapped the ledger closed. Thomas Flynn’s affairs were none of her concern. She should never have pried.

  Standing, she lifted her lamp and circled the desk. A low light flickered in the hall. Footsteps. She blew out her lamp and edged toward the wall, no desire to face her father tonight, never mind explain what she was doing skulking around his study.

  A candle’s small flame appeared in the doorway and entered, only it didn’t illuminate her father’s face, but glowed off a much darker complexion. Eli closed the door and moved to the desk, oblivious to her presence in the shadows. He lowered into the chair she had just occupied and lifted the Daily Richmond Examiner. Leaned over it, he flipped through the pages before settling on the article he sought.

  “The war?” she whispered.

  He jerked to his feet then huffed out a breath. “Miss Esther, what are you doin’ there, lurkin’ in the dark?”

  “Much the same as you.” Trying to find information while remaining unseen. “You’ve been following the politics of the war?” She didn’t doubt that was what interested him. He was a brilliant man, taking much quicker to reading than she had. As a young girl, it had been impossible to not pour knowledge into his eager mind. All secretly. Like this.

  Eli visibly relaxed but didn’t sit back down. He folded the paper and set it back on her father’s desk. “Been watching what’s goin’ on, but I figure we’re only getting half the story. What’s really happening out there, Miss Esther?”

  She sighed. “The Confederation has been busy pulling in more southern states—quite confident with themselves since their victory at Fort Sumter.” How long before the fighting reached Virginia? Esther motioned to the paper. “Last week, Arkansas and Tennessee separated from the Union.” Bringing the tally to ten southern states. North Carolina would probably follow soon. And then what? More battles? A full-scale war?

  “All over slavery, miss?”

  “Mostly, I think.” She remembered her argument with Flynn—Thomas—that the South did have other protests, but how could she look at the man in front of her and consider any of them valid enough to hold him against his will? Every man deserved to choose his life, to have freedom. Eli did.

  As did Thomas Flynn.

  How did a simple blacksmith build a multi-hundred-dollar debt with a doctor?

  Esther shook him from her mind. “What would you do, Eli, if you were free?”

  He huffed out a laugh. “I’d join Mr. Lincoln.”

  “And fight?”

  He nodded, his dark brow furrowed. “Whatever they would let me do. I’ve heard you speaking with Master Allerton. You agree with Mr. Lincoln too.”

  “But I don’t want war.” If there was only a way to work out their differences before more blood was spilled. Once they got too far down that course, there would be no turning back. And she wouldn’t be able to stay. Thomas Flynn was right to accuse her of trying to ignore her family’s position on slavery, but she wouldn’t be able to take their side with good conscience. If war reached Virginia, she would return to the North.

  Heartsick, Esther took her cold lamp and started the long, dark trek to her room. Strange. It wasn’t battles and politics that hung over her heart as she slipped back into bed, but the image of Thomas Flynn, hammering out the long rod that would someday be a rifle. Thomas Flynn and the pile of numbers burying him in her father’s ledger.

  Chapter 9

  Every clank, jangle of harnesses, or approaching footsteps had Flynn glancing up, only to be met with unwitting disappointment. Even customers offering coins for his meager coffer or the praise of his workmanship did little to raise the sinking of his spirits. June already. Over two weeks and no sign of Charlie or Esther. A clear and not so subtle answer to his offer of friendship.

  He should have kept his tongue. For Charlie’s sake.

  Flynn laid his frustration to the bellows. He had orders to catch up on now that the rifle barrels were delivered as agreed to the gunsmith. Payment would be forthcoming as soon as the finished weapons were delivered to the Confederate Army.

  Flynn let out a breath at the memory of Esther’s anger. She’d convicted him for not being opposed to slavery.

  Flames roared with renewed life. The heat from the forge singed his forehead, wetting it with perspiration. Of course he opposed the idea that one man could own another, but what could he do about it so long as his own fetters dug into his flesh? He’d been sold by his own father, compelled to work in this smithy until his twenty-first year. And then what? He’d had nowhere to go—but he should have escaped while he’d had the chance.

  Sparks flew as cool iron met the scarlet coals with too much force.

  The bell tinkled behind him, and he glanced over. Another customer.

  Two weeks and his heart still paused, still hoped.

  What a fool he was. He left the iron in the forge and stepped into his shop. “Can I help you, sir … Dr. Allerton?” He couldn’t remember the last time the doctor stepped under his roof. “What do you want?”

  The doctor raised an eyebrow. “You don’t seem yourself, Flynn.”

  “Just surprised to see you. Here.” Dr. Allerton always sent Eli to pick up Flynn’s payment and the ever-accumulating interest. “I’m a little short today. But in another week, I plan to—”

  “I’m not here for money, man!” Dr. Allerton glanced away, brushing his palms across his trim black coat as though he could clean his hands of this whole interchange. “I have been informed by several that my daughter and her boy have made frequent calls here since their return. And not to make purchases.”

  Flynn narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen neither in a fortnight.”

  A laugh sounded with derision. “But they had been coming regularly.”

  “Charlie enjoyed watching me work. I may have minded him a few times for your daughter while she ran her errands.” The words fell from him like a confession. How did any of this concern the man before him, who glanced out the window as though ensuring his presence went unnoticed?

  “You will stay away from Esther. And her son. Being seen with—” His gaze flickered over Flynn. He shook his head. “You are damaging her reputation. As if that child hasn’t done enough harm. Now this.”

  Flynn clenched his teeth against a retort. But what could he say? The man had the ability to do whatever he liked with this shop, with Flynn’s life.

  “Do we have an understanding?”

  He bit his tongue and forced a nod.

  “Good.” The doctor pulled on his gloves and stepped back out onto the street.

  Flynn stood in place for a long moment. Why should he be upset when obviously he needn’t worry about Esther and Charlie returning to his shop?

  Yet, as Flynn laid his heated iron across the anvil, the last thing on his mind was creation. He pounded the surface, bleeding frustration and other feelings he didn’t dare explore. The iron bar became a sheet as thin as paper, ripping with holes. Breathing hard, he thrust it into a pail of water. It met with a hiss and spit. Destroyed. Repairing the damage he’d done might not even be possible.

  Seemed fitting somehow.

  Flynn pressed his arm over his forehead and wiped away the sweat. He had work to do.

  The hours faded into one another with few interruptions. It wasn’t until midafternoon that the bell rang at the front of his shop.

  Setting his work aside, Flynn met the matronly woman scanning his ready-made lanterns.

&n
bsp; “Something you like? Or do you wish one made to your specifications?”

  “Oh, these are fine.” She spared him a quick glance before turning her gaze back to the iron wrought with his own hands. “I’m just not sure which one I like the best.”

  She was still making a thorough examination a few minutes later when Lyman Hastings and a larger man pushed into the shop.

  “Mr. Flynn.”

  “Yes?”

  Instead of answering, the gunsmith nodded to the woman and motioned his friend to the opposite side of the small room to make a study of decorative hooks. Flynn tried to focus on the lady while she hemmed and hawed, but with his payment for the rifle barrels mere feet away …

  “Maybe I should come back later and bring my niece. She’s much better at making decisions like this than I. She has an eye for such things.”

  “Whatever you feel is best.”

  “But I did so wish to make my purchase today.”

  Flynn unhooked the nearest lantern from the wall. “Why not take one you like home, and if it doesn’t suit, bring it back tomorrow and trade for another.”

  Her face brightened and a dimple appeared in one cheek, wiping away some of her wrinkles. “Wonderful. If my niece is not pleased with this one, she can bring it back and make the switch.”

  “So long as you are happy with your purchase.” Flynn forced a smile and ushered her toward the door, hardly concerned over the two coins she slipped into his palm or that they were slightly less than the named price. “Good day, ma’am.”

  “Thank you again, young man.”

  He watched her leave before a woman up the street in a blue gown stole his attention. But there was no boy at her side, and now that he looked closer, her hair was a little too light. He turned back inside.

  “Why don’t we step into the back to settle business?” Hastings asked, already moving through the door into the smithy.

  Flynn stepped in and opened his hand to the small pouch the man extended.

  “Costs ran higher than anticipated, and the army didn’t pay as well as they’d promised. This will have to do.”