His watery eyes crinkled around the edges but never focused. “Mrs. Bonner! I was wondering when you’d come back to brighten an old man’s day. Ever since you moved out of the neighborhood, it’s been as dull as tea with a vicar.”
“Stuff and nonsense.” Colleen turned to a large bouquet in the window and buried her smile in the petals. The light, innocent scent of the primrose reminded her of springtime. “I was here just two weeks ago. And from what I hear around the neighborhood, you’re not lacking for female companionship.”
His cheeks turned ruddy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Uh huh.” Striding to the table, Colleen tugged off her gloves. “So, Mrs. Hutchins doesn’t bring you dinner every other day of the week?”
Mr. Ridley lifted his chin. “The widow is being neighborly. Unlike some, who forget their friends and move halfway across the city.”
Colleen rested her elbows on the table, her sleeve brushing a cut stalk of lavender. “I’m close to coming back. If you still want to sell, in a week I’ll have enough saved to make the down payment on this building and your business.”
With his failing eyesight, Mr. Ridley had talked of selling the place for years. He lived in the upper apartment and had run the florist shop downstairs for as long as Colleen could remember. But the income from the sale of the building and the business would be enough to see him comfortably through his remaining years. His daughter had offered him a room in her cottage in Surrey, and Mr. Ridley was of a mind to take it.
Colleen wanted the flower shop with a longing so strong it stole her breath. While married, she’d been surrounded by hundreds of timepieces. The endless tick-tocks, the sterile whistle from the rare cuckoo clock imported from Germany, all had created a cacophony loud enough to drive a person mad. Her refuge had been this shop. It was vibrant, abounding with life and vitality. The scents and colors were a feast for her senses.
Her husband could never understand her wasting her money on a bouquet that would wither within a week. But, then, Mr. Bonner had been as mechanical as the clocks he’d repaired and sold.
The old man patted the table, searching, and Colleen slid the knife under his hand. He cut the end of the string and knotted it around the spray of lavender. “I wish I could give the place to you. No one else seems to feel the same way about it. But I’ll miss it.”
He slid the knife into an apron pocket and walked into the back. Colleen followed. Four tables were piled high with mounds of loose flowers. Mr. Ridley felt along the tables, picking up stems and smelling the blooms, forming a bouquet. “My wife and I had a lot of good years here. Well, you know what it’s like working with someone you love.”
Her heart pinched. She wasn’t quite certain she did know. She’d started out her marriage with high hopes. Each year that passed, Colleen had begun to suspect that whatever it was she felt for her husband wasn’t love. And then—
She slammed the door on those thoughts. “I know you’ve been patient with me. You must have turned down other offers waiting for me to come up with the money. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” She looked through the watery glass of the back window into the small yard behind the building. Rows of flowers punched out of the soil, the newer buds starting to defy the strict order in which Mr. Ridley had sown them. Weeds escaped notice because of his failing sight. Colleen knew he purchased most of his flowers wholesale each morning. But the idea of growing and harvesting her own seeds sent a lick of anticipation shooting through her.
He snorted. “I haven’t had that many offers, though I am glad you’re almost ready. My daughter asks nearly every day when I’m going to move.” Wrapping the bouquet in yesterday’s paper, he dampened the end. “Let me know when you can close the deal. Mrs. Hutchins’s nephew is an attorney, and he said he’d draw up the paperwork. I already told him the terms we agreed to.”
“Sounds perfect.” Colleen clasped her hands together and blew out a long breath. Her heart thudded in her chest. In just over a week, this would all be hers. Hers, and something no one could take. Not a husband, not a landlord, not a bank. She bounced on her toes. And because she couldn’t help herself, she skipped over to Mr. Ridley and kissed his bristly cheek.
His ears turned bright red. “Aw, go on with you. You’ll be making Mrs. Hutchins jealous, you will.”
“So, you admit there’s something there to be jealous of.”
He shooed her from the back room. “Scoot. Or I’ll sell to that Friday-face next door.”
“I can’t have that.” Although having such a sullen man ashernew neighbor didn’t exactly fill her with glee, either. But she could handle living next to a cranky man. “I’ll see you next week.” She gripped the door’s handle.
“Wait.” Mr. Ridley shuffled towards her. He held out a woody stem with a delicate starburst of white petals.
“It’s beautiful.” Colleen took the flower and rubbed one of the leathery leaves between her thumb and forefinger. She slid the stem into the buttonhole of her old coat.
“Smells even better,” he said gruffly. “It’s bridal wreath. Supposed to bring you luck.”
From the depths her life had sunk to six months ago to being a week away from purchasing her dream, she didn’t know how much more luck she needed. But she supposed every bit helped.
“Thank you.” She squeezed the man’s arm and slipped out the door. Her good mood lasted three blocks. Colleen stopped in front of the remnants of her old home. The burned-out shell of the structure remained, a discarded carcass. The bottom floor of the building next to hers had also burned, but the owner had rebuilt. A new tenant was slapping paint on a sign above the front door announcing a bakehouse.
Colleen stared at the charred pile of rubble that represented eight years of her life. She’d lived there since the day of her marriage at age nineteen. Eight years of her life, and it didn’t feel real. Her memories of that time were already fading, becoming obscured, as though she was looking through a window covered with a heavy sheen of oil, distorting all the images. Nothing in that time felt as real as her life now at The Black Rose.
As a woman, her husband had owned everything. She’d worked in the clock shop, increased its profits, and it all belonged to Mr. Bonner. Nothing was hers. Even if she’d worked outside the shop, her wages would have belonged to her husband, as well. As a widow, her rights had changed.
Her throat thickened. Of course, she’d give all those rights up if she could go back in time and change what had happened six months ago. But she couldn’t deny the heady rush when she received her pay each week and knew it was hers, and hers alone. The Black Rose had provided her with the means to determine her future. For that, she owed Lord Sutton a large debt of gratitude.
Yes, the club was immoral. Colleen chewed on her lower lip. But a proper establishment would most likely never be managed by a woman. Strange to think a den of iniquity was more forward-thinking than the rest of London society. Perhaps … perhaps the club wasn’tallbad. And like the baron had said, no one was hurt by it, except perchance the salvation of some everlasting souls. But that was a decision best left up to God and not hers to pass judgment upon.
Eyes dry, she turned and walked away from her past life. Night was falling by the time she reached the club, and she suspected a large blister had formed on her right heel. The footman opened the door for her and gave her a polite nod. “Molly’s been looking for you, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” Looking longingly at the door to her apartments, Colleen turned into the main room of the club instead and searched for the girl. Molly wasn’t dancing with the members. Or drinking champagne. Or sitting down to a game of cards. Nowhere semi-respectable. Colleen turned for the unrespectable parts of the club.
