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Their eyes met; no, their eyes clashed, and Richard finally turned on his heel and stalked away. Iris watched him disappear over the rise, then let out her breath in a long, shaky whoosh.
“Are you all right?” she asked Fleur, who was still hiccuping in her arms. “No, don’t answer that. Of course you’re not all right. None of us is.”
“Why won’t he listen to me?” Fleur whispered.
“He believes that he is acting in your best interest.”
“But he’s not.”
Iris sucked in her breath, trying to keep her voice even as she said, “He’s certainly not acting in his own best interest.”
Fleur pulled back and looked up at her. “Nor yours.”
“Certainly not mine,” Iris said, her agreement caustic at best.
Fleur’s mouth flattened into a sullen line. “He does not understand me.”
“I don’t either,” Iris admitted.
Fleur touched her hand to her flat abdomen. “I love—I’m sorry, I loved the father. The baby is born of that love. I can’t just give him up.”
“You loved him?” Iris asked. How was that possible? If even half of what Richard said was true, William Parnell had been a terrible person.
Fleur looked toward her feet, mumbling, “It is difficult to explain.”
Iris just shook her head. “Don’t even try. Come, shall we head back to the house?”
Fleur nodded, and they began walking. After a few minutes she said, completely without fervor, “I still hate you, you know.”
“I know,” Iris said. She reached out and gave the younger girl’s hand a squeeze. “I still hate you, too, sometimes.”
Fleur looked over at her with an almost hopeful expression. “You do?”
“Sometimes.” Iris reached down and plucked a blade of grass. She put it between her thumbs, trying to make a whistle. “I don’t really want to have your baby, you know.”
“I can’t imagine why you would.”
They resumed walking, Iris taking about six steps before saying, “You’re not going to ask me why I’m doing it?”
Fleur shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Iris thought about that for a moment. “No, I suppose not.”
“I know you mean well.”
Iris nodded absently, keeping the pace up the hill.
“Aren’t you going to return the sentiment?” Fleur asked.
Iris turned her head sharply. “That you mean well?”
Fleur’s lips pressed peevishly together.
“I suppose you do,” Iris finally capitulated. “I will confess I find your motives utterly baffling, but I suppose you mean well.”
“I don’t want to marry a stranger.”
“I did.”
Fleur stopped in her tracks.
“Well, almost one, anyway,” Iris allowed.
“You weren’t pregnant with another man’s child.”
Good heavens, the girl was exasperating. “No one is saying you should deceive your bridegroom,” Iris told her. “I’m sure there is someone who will leap at the chance to align himself with Maycliffe.”
“And I shall be made to feel grateful for the rest of my life,” Fleur said bitterly. “Have you considered that?”
“No,” Iris said quietly. “I had not.”
They reached the edge of the west lawn, and Iris squinted up at the sky. It was still overcast, but the clouds had grown thinner. The sun might well yet make an appearance. “I’m going to stay outside,” she said.
Fleur looked up, too. “Won’t you want a shawl?”
“Yes, I suppose I will.”
“I can have one of the maids bring one down.”
It was as clear a gesture of friendship as Iris had ever seen. “That would be most helpful, thank you.”
Fleur nodded and entered the house.
Iris walked over to bench and sat down, waiting for the sun.
Chapter Twenty-two
BY NIGHTFALL IRIS was a bit more at ease. She had spent the rest of the day in her own company, feeling only the tiniest pang of guilt when she elected to take her evening meal in her room. After the morning’s interactions with Richard and Fleur, she rather thought she’d earned the right to abstain from conversation for a day or so. The entire exchange had been exhausting.
But sleep proved elusive, no matter how weary she felt, and sometime after midnight she gave up the attempt, threw back her covers, and padded across her bedchamber to the petite writing desk Richard had had brought up the week before.
She looked down at the small selection of books lying on the desktop. She’d finished them all except the history of Yorkshire, which had stubbornly refused to get the least bit interesting, even in the chapter about the War of the Roses. How the author managed to make that dull she’d never know, but she had given up trying to find out.
Gathering the books in her arms, she shoved her feet in her night slippers and headed for the door. She wouldn’t wake anyone if she tiptoed down to the library.
The servants had long since retired, and the house was very quiet. Still, Iris stepped gently, grateful for the soft carpets that muffled her footsteps. At home she’d known every creaky board and squeaky door hinge. She hadn’t had a chance yet to learn the same for Maycliffe.
She paused in her steps, frowning. That was not right. She had to stop thinking of her parents’ house as home. Maycliffe was her home now. She needed to get used to that.
She supposed she was starting to feel that way, at least a little bit. Even with all the drama—and heavens, there was a lot of drama—Maycliffe was starting to settle into her heart. The sofa in the drawing room was her sofa now, no question about that, and already she’d grown accustomed to the unique song of the yellow-bellied birds that nested near her window. She wasn’t sure what they were called, only that they didn’t have them in London.