by Erica Ridley
“Here.” She burst through the trees and pointed at a small outbuilding. “That’s where we print the Gazette. If you must speak to me privately, we can do so in there. That’s where I spend most days anyway. It’s accessible from the back, so you needn’t ever come to the front.”
Never show his face near her door. Message received. He brushed the leaf dust from his hat.
“I don’t know what sort of favor you think I came to ask, but I assure you, it is no secret. The opposite. My brother and I are selling our smithy, and I was hoping you could help us spread the word to the right people.”
She stared at him for a long moment without blinking.
Why? Was she thrilled to see the last of him? Annoyed he’d come to collect on the favor? Worried who would forge iron replacement pieces to the printing press once he and Lucien were no longer here?
He matched her unblinking stare with his own. And then blinked. Damn it.
“Are you leaving or just selling?” she asked at last.
He smiled politely. “Are my personal plans subsequent to the sale relevant?”
“No,” she admitted. “I ask questions. Old habit.”
Bastien doubted it was habit, and more like strategy. Not an ulterior motive, but a blatant one. She was a journalist. It was her job to ask, even if she was uninterested in the subject. Just like the swans.
“Yes,” he said. “We’re returning to France.”
Alarm filled her eyes. “All of you? What about—”
“Just Lucien and I. Désirée’s home is now here.”
At this, her searching gaze clouded with even more questions, and she visibly forced herself to push them away.
“I’ll help.” She retrieved a pencil and a journal from inside her pelisse. “What do you have in mind?”
“Nothing concrete,” he admitted. “I’ve spoken to everyone I know here in the village. You know people all over England. I’d like to reach them.”
Her face lit up and she began to scribble. “An advert. You want to place an advert in the next Gazette.”
He frowned. “The Gazette doesn’t have an advertisement section.”
“It does now.” She lifted her eyes from the journal and met his gaze. “A favor for a favor, yes? Father adores the illustration your friend made of the swans. I can convince him to run this.”
“Easily?” If this advertisement didn’t print, Bastien would be right where he was now: nowhere.
She bit the end of her pencil. “Father doesn’t want the Gazette to become ‘focused on profit,’ but he does want Cressmouth to keep fulfilling the idyllic dream. He’d rather run an advert than risk visitors not coming because we no longer meet their needs. What would you like the advert to say?”
“I was hoping you could help with that, too.”
Because he’d studied obsessively for years and spent six days a week speaking to apprentices and customers from dawn to dusk, Bastien’s command of English was superior to both his siblings’. That did not make him a writer. He could flirt with ladies and discuss ideal wheel circumferences at length, but he didn’t know how to pick the right words to convince someone to purchase a smithy in the northernmost corner of England.
“Mm-hmm.” She was scribbling again, as if just the right phrasing constantly flowed from her pencil tip and all she needed to do was set it to paper.
Bastien shut his mouth and waited.
He should not find her fetching. She’d rather scurry amongst the trees like a squirrel than be seen in his presence. Her bonnet still lurched to one side, leaving a spill of ebony curls to tangle in the cold breeze. Her pelisse gaped at her hips, revealing a sliver of ink-stained apron.
This was not the sort of woman one had fun with. She was the marrying type, the better-than-you type, the all-business-no-pleasure type. The stay far, far away type.
And yet. Whatever she was scribbling put a seductive sparkle into her green eyes. Her pink lips plumped perfectly every time she nibbled the edge of her pencil. The relentless wind brought a becoming blush to her cheeks. And she was standing out here at the edge of the winter woods, doing her best to help him leave for good.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Shelling…”
“Eve,” she said without looking up. “If we’re doing favors for each other, you might as well call me Eve.”
Bastien blinked. What was he meant to do with that? He was at liberty to use her Christian name at will, but forbidden to knock upon her door?
“Sébastien,” he said, for there could be no other gentlemanly reply. “Friends call me Bastien.”
There. Either she would say we shall never be friends, or she’d be forced to murmur you should come for tea sometime.
She did neither.
“I’ve got it!” Miss—er, Eve—spun her journal around to face him. “This is perfect. The Gazette subscribers refer to themselves as the ‘friends of Christmas’ and include almost everyone who has ever visited, as well as a great deal of their friends. Our village’s permanent residents might number in the hundreds, but the Gazette reaches thousands.”
Thousands? Bastien’s chest lightened. This was going to work. He could feel it.
“Well?” she prompted. “What do you think?”
“I think,” he said slowly, “that this is a much larger favor than the one I did for you.”
“Don’t worry.” She nibbled the edge of her pencil, her eyes sparkling. “It is your turn to be indebted to me.”
He choked on a startled laugh. “Fair enough. When will the advertisement go out?”
“Publication is intended for the first of November. I set the type and run the press a week in advance so that we can start shipping to the furthest places first. We cannot guarantee everyone will receive their copy on the same day, but we try.”
“Impressive,” Bastien said, and meant it.
It was also only three weeks away. Lucien might find such a timetable interminable, but this was the best chance they had. Someone would know someone. The smithy would be sold before they knew it. In fact, as soon as Bastien returned home, he would send away for tickets to book their passage to France. That would make it seem final, and give them both something to hold onto.
He tipped his hat to Eve. “Thank you.”
She pointed her pencil toward a break in the trees on the opposite side of the outbuilding. “That way to the main road. There’s a walking path.”
Thank God. This jacket had to last until the Gazette found them a buyer.
He set off with his chest much lighter than it had been in years. Whatever Eve wanted as her return favor, she’d have to hurry and ask for it.
After Twelfth Night, Bastien and his brother would be gone.
Chapter 6
Eve spread new sheets of foolscap over the large wooden table next to the printing press.
Three weeks from now, this table—and every inch of the floor around it—would be piled high with the December issue of the Cressmouth Gazette. The Yuletide edition was the biggest of the year. A fortnight from now, printing would begin.
As the sole typesetter, the entire writing staff, and one half of the printing team, this meant time was running out for Eve to finalize the contents and layout in time for her father’s approval. A smile curved her lips as she imagined garnering his favorable opinion at last.
Bastien le Duc might think that her ability to help his message reach thousands of people made her contribution the bigger favor, but he had helped her reconcile with the one person she cared about most.
Father had viewed the swan illustration as exactly what it was: an olive branch. He would still scrutinize every single square of type before they went to press, but between now and then she had her autonomy again… and the old, easygoing father-daughter relationship she’d missed.
Duenna’s nose nudged Eve’s feet beneath the table.
“Not yet.” Eve scratched behind Duenna’s ears. “We’ll go for a walk later.”
Duenna cast her a mournf
ul gaze, then rested her muzzle atop Eve’s foot as though to say, Feeling trapped? Perhaps a brisk stroll would do the trick. Shall we see?
“Soon,” Eve promised.
Drafting a quarterly gazette wasn’t nearly as intensive as she imagined producing a daily newspaper would be. For that reason, Eve wanted each issue to shine.
Her father might be content with rerunning old articles extolling Castle Marlowe’s vast accommodations, the free communal dining area open to tourists and locals alike, and the countless seasonal activities ranging from sleigh rides to caroling to performances of The Winter’s Tale.
To Eve, Cressmouth might be known as “Christmas” but that wasn’t all it was. Every wassailer and mistletoe grower and fruitcake vendor was a vital part of a rich, complex community. The trick was finding a way to announce that message to the world.
Margaret’s suggestion of Resident of the Month wasn’t a bad idea, but with an entire village of hardworking, worthy neighbors to choose from, how was Eve supposed to decide—
She dropped her pencil. “The smithy!”
Duenna jerked her head up and let out a plaintive howl.
“No, I don’t mean we’re going there right now.” Eve grabbed her bonnet from the table. “Actually, yes. That’s exactly what I mean. Are you ready? Who wants to go for a walk?”
Duenna woofed and leapt upright.
“This will work brilliantly,” Eve informed her lively bullmastiff as they hurried from the printing house.
She’d write about what an intrinsic part of the community the smithy was. Everyone entered Cressmouth on the same winding road, making the smithy the first business visitors saw as they reached the village. It was where carriages were mended, iron hoops were crafted, replacement parts were forged.
This time of year, sleighs often queued around the smithy for annual maintenance. If she could procure an illustration depicting that, Father couldn’t have any objections to the relevance of the article. Eve would help Bastien sell his smithy, prove Cressmouth was more than a holiday, and prove herself and her gazette as more than just froth.
Who knew? If she continued in this direction, perhaps by next Christmas she’d be a respected journalist at an even bigger publication.
Eve drew to a stop as she and Duenna reached the edge of the le Duc property. The family residence was nestled back toward the evergreens, but the smithy was right next to the main road. The large doors were wide open, exposing the flurry of activity inside.
Now that she was here, Eve hesitated. Wanting to be a respected journalist of meaningful articles was one thing. Barging into someone’s place of business with a pencil and a bullmastiff was another.
She wouldn’t barge, Eve decided. She would enter quietly and keep to the back. Assuming there was a back. Having never actually been in the smithy—her family had no carriage to maintain, and Father always handled replacing machinery himself—Eve was belatedly realizing she had absolutely no idea how a smithy worked.
Well, that was why she was here, wasn’t it? To investigate, and to report. She’d wager a fair percentage of the Gazette’s wealthy subscribers were also unfamiliar with the inner workings of a smithy. Her article would educate as well as entertain.
She strode in through the front door.
No one scurried out of sight, or rushed to hide objects from view. Eve didn’t expect such things, but she’d also come to learn that the people with the most to hide usually were the same people one least suspected.
Now that she was here and everything seemed normal, she could finally admit to herself how badly she’d been hoping that was true. She liked Bastien. She wanted to write this article. And it wouldn’t happen if her father found any reason at all to blackball it.
She glanced around for a bench or chair. The only visible stools were currently in use, as a lad stood atop one to adjust a… something, and another lad leaned on his as he adjusted… something else.
This wasn’t going to be a technical article, Eve decided quickly. She wasn’t trying to explain how to be a blacksmith. She just needed to convey the importance of the smithy’s location and function within the community. And relate it to Christmas, of course.
“Just a little froth,” she muttered to herself. “Mostly serious, lightly frothy.”
“Eve?”
She spun around to find herself face-to-face with Bastien le Duc, as she’d never seen him before.
Gone were the outrageous colors, the pristine cravat, the impossible dandy perfection. Instead, white linen sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing calloused fingers and unfashionably bronzed forearms. A nondescript tunic replaced his usual eye-catching waistcoat. Now what caught the eye were his strong shoulders, his well-muscled body, the throat-drying way his tousled dark hair clung to his brow.
She gulped. “I…”
Didn’t know you could look even more attractive than you normally do.
He tilted his head. “Is this about the advert?”
“Yes. No.” Why was she here again? She took a deep breath. “I want to write an article about the smithy.”
A blur of melodic French shot out from beneath a carriage.
Bastien responded in kind, without taking his eyes off Eve.
Scuffed black boots swung out from under the carriage, followed by worn buckskins, an indecently exposed white linen shirt, and the eternally broody eyes of Lucien le Duc.
Margaret would melt into a puddle if she could see him now.
Eve kept her gaze locked on Bastien. One gorgeous, rumpled, well-muscled le Duc brother was more than enough distraction.
“It’s not some sort of exposé,” she said hurriedly. “If that’s what your brother is worried about.” At least, she didn’t think it was. For years she’d relied on her belief that everyone had something to hide, but she’d never wanted to be more wrong than right now. “I think it will help the advert if I can explain how important this smithy is to the community.” She glanced at the rows of waiting carriages. “And how popular.”
Lucien let fly with another stream of euphonic French, smirked, and then disappeared between two carriages.
Bastien cleared his throat. “He says ‘popular’ doesn’t pay the accounts and I shouldn’t waste time talking to you.”
She frowned. “Wait… Lucien understands English? Then why does he—”
“Here.” Bastien swung his brother’s abandoned stool in her direction. “Have a seat. I won’t try to decipher Lucien, but I can explain what he was referring to. Most of our jobs are paid.”
She paused in the act of retrieving her journal and pencil. “Most?”
“Our scale depends on need.” He shrugged. “If you can afford our regular rates, you pay them. If you cannot, we negotiate. Sometimes that means accepting lower rates. And sometimes that means accepting IOUs in lieu of payment.”
“And sometimes that means you never do get paid.” She flipped open her journal. “I’m writing this down.”
“Don’t.” Bastien pulled a face. “I doubt ‘occasionally operates at a loss’ is much of a selling point for the advert.”
Eve stopped writing mid-word.
“Probably not,” she admitted. But it spoke very highly of the le Duc character. “I’ll stick with ‘well-respected’ and ‘popular.’”
“I can’t take any of the credit.” He fished a rag from his leather belt and started wiping the carriage his brother had been working on. “Our Uncle Jasper founded this smithy before any of us were born. He slept abovestairs in the attic until…”
She glanced up, her pencil poised. “Until?”
“Until he suddenly had a family to house.” He disappeared beneath the carriage as if to say, Conversation over.
Eve was far from done, however. She was starting to suspect that the men who ran the smithy were just as intrinsic to the community as the smithy itself.
They could sell the building to the highest bidder, but what sort of blacksmith would take their place? Someone who would s
leep in a crawlspace to keep his prices low for locals? Or someone who would match his prices to the purses of the fancy London tourists, making it all but impossible for anyone who actually earned their money to be able to afford the smithy’s services?
The le Ducs needed a buyer. Cressmouth needed the right buyer. Someone who cared about the community as deeply as he cared about profits.
This might well be the most important article Eve had written in her entire career.
With Duenna settled comfortably beside the stool, Eve turned to a blank page and began to record everything she witnessed happening around her.
It was impossible to know which of the brothers was the more skilled blacksmith, but Bastien was the one who was constantly interrupted by everyone who entered the smithy. He took orders, assigned jobs, exchanged banking information or accepted IOUs, explained repairs, cautioned about upkeep, assigned carriages to stalls, determined the order of operations, manually inspected the forge.
All of this, whilst seamlessly translating running commentary between his brother and the customers, or the lads Bastien referred to as “apprentices.”
Eve knew next to nothing about smithies, but she doubted these lads were old enough to be true apprentices. Were there no journeymen in Cressmouth? She made a note to investigate both here and in the neighboring towns.
Providing work to local adolescents who undoubtedly needed the coin was a commendable gesture, but also not likely to make the smithy’s purchase more attractive to potential buyers… Though it did make Bastien even more attractive to Eve.
He and his brother made quick work of their tasks, despite pausing as many times as necessary to answer client questions or patiently show their apprentices how to make this adjustment or use that tool.
Meanwhile, the brothers tossed what Eve could only assume to be jokes and insults back and forth, based on their tone of voice. Every now and then, one or the other would make an offended expression and then burst into laughter, the wickedness in their matching smiles lighting up the room and everyone in it.
“Stop staring,” she muttered to herself.
Bastien le Duc turning out to be talented and kindhearted and responsible and patient and funny instead of just a ridiculously good-looking dandy didn’t signify in the least.
