Page 8 of One Night to Remember
Chapter 2
Giles Langford whistled a jaunty Irish air as he organized the tools hanging from nails or arranged on shelves strategically placed about his shop. Although he held a soft spot for all smithies, his favorite would always be his own. He grew up here, in this very chamber, at his father’s knee learning everything he could.
Friends and customers alike often teased him about owning the cleanest smithy in all of England. He ignored their jests. Not only was Giles fond ofa place for everything and everything in its place, but he would also always consider this space to belong to both him and his father alike. He would never disrespect his father by failing to take care of something the family owned.
When the smithy was tidied to his liking, Giles crossed over to Baby, the much-loved lightweight conveyance in the center. His father had helped him build this curricle. They’d begun with nothing more than a dream and ended with a thing of beauty, built with their own hands.
That was, until the tremors and involuntary movements started. When Father could no longer keep any tools clutched in his shaking grasp, he’d been forced to watch without participating. He swore it gave him just as much pride to witness everything his son could accomplish on his own.
It had taken Giles much longer to get used to working without his father.
But he didn’t work alone. A smithy this busy required talented journeymen to helm each specialized post. Giles also sponsored close to a dozen apprentices; some in the traditional manner, and some… less so.
He raked a final glance over a small table prepared with two pitchers of fresh lemonade and checked his pocket watch. If prior history was any indication, every drop would be gone within the next half an hour.
“Mr. Langford! Mr. Langford!” The shouts were accompanied by the patter of a dozen boots rushing into the smithy at once.
Giles gave a welcoming smile to his six young charges, then motioned to what theyreallywanted—the lemonade in the corner.
As they crossed the threshold into the smithy, the six lads ceased elbowing each other and assumed the exaggeratedly calm mien of the responsible, mature blacksmith apprentices they hoped to someday be.
Most of the children who spent time in the Langford smithy lived nearby, although a few came from the neighboring rookery St. Giles. His good friend Hugh Tarleton was a rector of a local church, and occasionally dropped off a lad who needed something to do with his time besides make trouble.
Although Tarleton often teased the children that they were in the presence of the modern-day Saint Giles for “rescuing” so many of their brethren, Giles didn’t feel particularly saintly. He and the children were helping each other.
As business increased and Giles expanded the smithy to include the properties on either side, there was room for more carriages, more horses—and more apprentices. Including the neighborhood lads had been a natural extension. Welcoming a few more from Tarleton’s church was no hardship at all. Giles enjoyed the company.
That his charges were every creed and color only made them more delightful. The boys didn’t bond over shared backgrounds. They bonded because for once, they all believed in their future.
After consuming every drop of lemonade in the pitchers, the lads wiped their upper lips and assumed their posts shadowing their assigned journeymen. Giles could not hide his fondness of the six bright-eyed children their neighborhood had previously given up on.
He glanced up at the sight of a carriage halting just outside the open doors of the smithy. When he caught sight of the ducal crest upon the door, Giles strode outside to attend to the visitor himself.
The door opened to reveal one of the Duke of Colehaven’s footmen.
“Harris,” Giles said warmly. “How have you been?”
“Very well, Mr. Langford.” The footman stepped down from the carriage. “And yourself?”
“Can’t complain,” Giles answered.
It was true. Business was booming, with every year even more successful than the last. Only a sentimental fool would grumble because he had no partner to share it with.
The sign overhead readLangford, just as it had done for thirty years. Father had promised to repaint itLangford & Langfordonce Giles commissioned his first paying client on his own, thereby proving himself worthy of becoming a full partner. Then the tremors started. Giles became the only Langford in the smithy long before either of them were ready.
He didn’t need a partner, Giles reminded himself. The past fifteen years had proved that. He had done far more than commission a single paying client. The smithy was now flanked by a large carriage house and a full mews, and had become as revered for some people as Vauxhall or Buckingham Palace.
To have accomplished all that as a solitary Langford should make him proud, not sad.
“How can I be of service?” he asked Harris.
The footman handed him a folded square of paper bearing a wax seal. “Message from His Grace. He would appreciate your immediate reply.”
Giles accepted the letter. The Duke of Colehaven was one of the smithy’s most important clients. They had met ten years ago this spring, when His Grace and a cohort had formed the Wicked Duke tavern near the Haymarket and opened its doors to any man, regardless of background or status.
Seeing an opportunity to expand his client list into the lucrative world of the ton, Giles had forged some items for Colehaven for free, in order to prove the speed and quality of his work. The gamble paid off. With the vocal support of a young, popular duke, the cachet of being one of Giles’s valued clients exploded overnight.
Whatever favor was requested inside the folded missive, Giles would see to it at once. Although His Grace might not realize it, Colehaven had rescued the Langford smithy when it teetered on the precipice of failure. A debt like that could never fully be repaid.
