The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

  “Wonderful!” Marie-Claire beamed. “Shall I meet you in the drive, say in about ten minutes?”

  Iris was about to bargain for fifteen, or better yet twenty, but then she thought—she was already awake. In for a penny, in for a pound. Ten minutes. Good Lord.

  To Marie- Claire, she said, “Why not?”

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER Iris and Marie-Claire were trudging across the western fields of Maycliffe. Iris still wasn’t entirely certain where they were going; Marie-Claire had said something about picking berries, but it seemed far too early in the year for that. Either way, Iris didn’t much care. She had a warm, buttery scone in her hands, and she was fairly certain it was the best thing she had ever eaten. Someone in the kitchens had to be from Scotland. It seemed the only explanation.

  They didn’t say much as they made their way down the hill. Iris was busy savoring her breakfast, and Marie-Claire seemed happy enough swinging her basket as she skipped along. But once they reached the bottom and turned onto a well-worn path, Marie-Claire cleared her throat, and said, “I don’t know if anyone has properly thanked you.”

  Iris went still, forgetting for a moment even to chew. She had not the pleasure of many conversations with Marie-Claire, and this . . . Well, frankly it surprised her.

  “For . . .” Marie-Claire motioned toward Iris’s midsection, her hand making an awkward little circle in the air. “For that.”

  Iris returned her eyes to the walking path. Richard had thanked her. It had taken him three days, but in all fairness, she had not given him the opportunity to do so before their conversation the night before. And even if he had tried, if he had banged her door down and insisted that she listen to him, it wouldn’t have mattered. She would not have heard anything he said. She had not been ready to allow him a true conversation.

  “Iris?”

  “You’re welcome,” Iris said, pretending to be absorbed in extracting a currant from her scone. She really didn’t feel like talking about this with Marie-Claire.

  But the younger girl had other ideas. “I know Fleur seems ungrateful,” she persisted, “but she will come around. Eventually.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot agree with your assessment,” Iris said. She still had no idea how Richard thought he was going to pull this off without Fleur’s cooperation.

  “She’s not stupid, no matter how she might be acting right now. In fact, most of the time she’s not this—well, not quite this emotional.” Marie-Claire’s lips came together, pursing into a thoughtful frown. “She was very close to our mother, you know, more so than either Richard or me.”

  Iris hadn’t known that. Richard had not said much of his mother to her, just that she’d died, and he missed her.

  “Perhaps that made Fleur more motherly,” Marie-Claire continued. She looked over at Iris and gave a little shrug. “Perhaps that’s why she feels so attached to the baby.”

  “Perhaps,” Iris said. She sighed, glancing down at her own belly. She was going to have to start padding herself soon. The only reason she had not yet done so were the three hundred miles between Yorkshire and London. Ladies were not quite so relentlessly fashionable here, and she could get away with wearing last year’s frocks. Waistlines were dropping in the capital; the forgiving billows of the Regency style were giving way to something far more structured and uncomfortable. By 1840, Iris predicted, women would be corseted into nothingness.

  They walked on for a few quiet moments, then Marie-Claire said, “Well, I’m thanking you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Iris said again, this time turning to Marie-Claire with a small, rueful smile. The younger girl was trying. The least she could do was be gracious.

  “I know that Fleur says she wants to be a mother,” Marie-Claire went on blithely, “but it’s really quite selfish of her. Do you know she has not apologized to me even once?”

  “To you?” Iris murmured. Because really, she rather thought she deserved one first.

  “She’ll ruin me,” Marie-Claire said. “You know she will. If you weren’t doing what you’re doing—”

  Doing what you’re doing, Iris thought. What a lovely euphemism.

  “—and she went ahead and had this baby out of wedlock, no one would have me.” Marie-Claire turned to Iris with an expression that was almost belligerent. “You’ll probably say I’m being selfish, but you know it’s true.”

  “I know,” Iris said quietly. Perhaps if Richard gave Marie-Claire a season in London . . . They could probably find someone for her, someone who lived far from this corner of Yorkshire. Gossip traveled, but usually not that far.

  “It’s so unfair. She makes a mistake, and I’m the one who would have to pay the price.”

  “I hardly think she would find herself getting off scot-free,” Iris pointed out.

  Marie-Claire pressed her lips together impatiently. “Yes, well, she would deserve it, not me.”

  It was not the most becoming of attitudes, but Iris had to admit that Marie-Claire had a point.

  “Trust me when I tell you there are girls here who are just dying for a reason to cut me.” Marie-Claire sighed, and a little bit of bravado seemed to seep out of her. She looked over at Iris with a slightly forlorn expression. “Do you know girls like that?”

  “Quite a few,” Iris admitted.

  They walked about ten more paces, and then Marie-Claire suddenly said, “I suppose I can forgive her a little.”

  “A little?” Iris had always thought that forgiveness was an all-or-nothing sort of thing.

  “I’m not completely unreasonable,” Marie-Claire said with a sniff. “I do recognize that she’s in a difficult situation. After all, it’s not as if she can marry the father.”

  That was true, but Iris still thought Fleur was being extremely shortsighted about the whole thing. Not that she thought that Richard had the right of it. Any fool could see that the only solution was to find a husband for Fleur. She could not expect a gentleman of high standing; Richard had already said he didn’t have the blunt to purchase a husband willing to overlook her condition. But surely there would be someone in the area eager to align himself with the Kenworthys. A vicar, perhaps, who didn’t have to worry about his land and property passing along to another man’s son. Or a new-to-the-area landowner looking to improve his standing.

  Iris reached out to touch a delicate white flower blooming in the hedge. She wondered what it was. She’d not seen it in the south of England. “It is difficult to marry a dead man,” she tried to quip. But it wasn’t easy to quip with so much bitterness in one’s voice.

  Marie-Claire only snorted.

  “What?” Iris turned and looked at her with narrowed eyes. There was something in Marie-Claire’s tone . . .

  “Please,” Marie-Claire scoffed. “Fleur is such a liar.”

  Iris froze, her hand going still in the leaves of the hedge. “I beg your pardon?”

  Marie-Claire caught her lower lip nervously between her teeth, as if she’d only just realized what she said.

  “Marie-Claire,” Iris said, grabbing her arm, “what do you mean, Fleur is a liar?”

  The younger girl swallowed and looked down at Iris’s fingers. Iris did not relax her grasp.

  “Marie-Claire!” she said sternly. “Tell me!”

  “Why does it even matter?” Marie-Claire retorted. She pulled hard with her arm. “She’s pregnant, and she’s not going to get married, and in the end, that’s all anyone will care about.”

  Iris fought the urge to scream. “What did she lie about?”

  “The father, of course,” Marie-Claire grunted, still trying to break free. “Will you let go of me?”

  “No,” Iris said baldly. “It wasn’t William Parnell?”

  “Oh, please. Even Fleur is smart enough to stay away from him.” Marie-Claire’s eyes flicked up to the sky. “God rest his soul.” She thought about that. “I suppose.”

  Iris tightened her grasp. “I don’t care how William Parnell’s soul is resting,” she growled. “Or
where. I want to know why Fleur lied. Did she tell you this? That he wasn’t the father?”

  At this, Marie-Claire looked almost insulted. “Of course not.”

  “Then who is?”

  Marie-Claire chose that moment to adopt a prim expression. “It’s not for me to say.”

  Iris yanked her sister-in-law hard and fast, giving Marie-Claire barely enough time to breathe before they were nose to nose. “Marie-Claire Kenworthy,” Iris hissed, “you will tell me the name of the father this instant or so help me God the only reason I will not kill you is because it is a hanging offense.”

  Marie-Claire could only stare.

  Iris’s hand tightened on Marie-Claire’s upper arm. “I have four sisters, Marie-Claire, one of whom is extraordinarily vexing. Trust me when I tell you that I can make your life a living hell.”

  “But why does it—”

  “Tell me!” Iris roared.

  “John Burnham!” Marie-Claire shrieked.

  Iris dropped her arm. “What?”

  “It was John Burnham,” Marie-Claire said, rubbing her bruised flesh. “I’m almost certain.”

  “Almost?”

  “Well, she was always running off to meet him. She thought I didn’t know, but really—”

  “Of course you knew,” Iris muttered. She knew how it was between sisters. There was no way Fleur could have been sneaking off to meet a man without Marie-Claire’s knowing.

  “I’m going to need a sling,” Marie-Claire said petulantly. “Look at these bruises. You didn’t need to be so rough.”

  Iris ignored this. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “To whom?” Marie-Claire demanded. “My brother? He would hardly have liked this more than William Parnell.”

  “But John Burnham is alive,” Iris cried out. “Fleur could marry him and keep her baby.”

  Marie-Claire looked over at her with a disdainful expression. “He’s a farmer, Iris. And not even a yeoman. He does not own his land.”

  “Are you really such a snob?”

  “And you’re not?”

  Iris recoiled at the accusation. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Marie-Claire shot back with a frustrated growl. “But tell me, how would your family have liked it if you married a tenant farmer? Or does it not count because your grandfather was an earl?”

  That was it. Iris had had it with her. “Shut your mouth,” she snapped. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. If my grandfather’s title gave me leave to misbehave with impunity, I’d hardly have married your brother.”

  Marie-Claire gaped at her.

  “Richard kissed me, and I found myself trussed up at the altar,” Iris burst out. She hated remembering that, how she’d thought maybe he’d wanted her, maybe he’d been so overcome with desire that he could not help himself. But the truth was nothing so romantic. The truth, she was learning, never was.

  She turned to Marie-Claire with what felt like an unbearably hard glint in her eyes. “I can assure you that if I had somehow got myself pregnant by a tenant farmer, I would have married him.” She paused for a moment. “Assuming, of course, that the intimacy had been consensual.”

  Marie-Claire didn’t say anything, so Iris added, “From what you have said of your sister and Mr. Burnham, I assume their relations were consensual.”

  Marie-Claire gave a terse nod. “I wasn’t there, of course,” she muttered.

  Iris ground her teeth together and flexed her fingers, hoping the motion would be enough to quell the urge to wrap them around Marie-Claire’s neck. She could not believe she was having this conversation. It wasn’t just that Marie-Claire knew that John Burnham was the true father of Fleur’s baby. It wasn’t even that she had chosen not to say anything. What absolutely galled Iris was that Marie-Claire seemed to think she had done the right thing by not saying anything.

  Good God, was she living among idiots?

  “I need to go back to the house,” Iris announced. She turned and began marching up the hill. The sun was inching to the top of the sky, and the air was lovely and warm, but she wanted nothing more than to shut herself in her room, lock the door, and speak to absolutely no one.

  “Iris,” Marie-Claire said, and something in her voice gave Iris pause.

  “What?” she asked wearily.

  Marie-Claire stood stock-still for several seconds, blinking rapidly. Then she said, “Richard didn’t . . . That is to say, he would never . . .”

  “Of course not!” Iris exclaimed, horrified by the mere suggestion. Richard might have surprised her with his advances, but he had not forced himself upon her. He could never do such a thing. He was far too fine a man.

  Iris swallowed. She did not wish to dwell upon her husband’s good qualities.

  “And you love him,” Marie-Claire said softly. “Don’t you?”

  Iris pressed her lips together, breathing furiously through her nose. She could not deny it, but nor would she say it aloud. She had to have more pride than that.

  “I’m tired,” she said.

  Marie-Claire nodded, and they turned toward home. But they had barely taken ten steps before Iris suddenly thought of something. “Wait a moment,” she said. “Why hasn’t Fleur said anything?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Why did she lie?”

  Marie-Claire shrugged.

  “She must care for Mr. Burnham,” Iris pressed.

  Marie-Claire shrugged again. Iris wanted to hit her.

  “You said that she sneaked out to see him,” Iris said. “That would seem to indicate some level of caring.”

  “Well, I didn’t ask her about it,” Marie-Claire responded. “She was obviously trying to hide it. Wouldn’t you?”

  Iris let out a frustrated breath. “Do you have an opinion on the matter?” she asked, with a slowness that was almost insulting. “Might you have some hypothesis as to why your sister lied about the identity of the father of her unborn child?”

  Marie-Claire stared at her as if she were an idiot. “He’s a farmer. I told you that.”

  Iris really wanted to hit her. “I understand that he is not the sort of man she might have been expected to wed, but if she cares for him, surely it is better to marry him than to raise their child out of wedlock.”

  “But she’s not going to do that,” Marie-Claire pointed out. “She’s giving the baby to you.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Iris muttered. Fleur had never actually come out and agreed to Richard’s scheme. He might think her silence was assent, but Iris was not so trusting.

  Marie-Claire sighed. “I’m sure she realized that she can’t possibly marry John Burnham, no matter how strongly she might feel about him. I don’t mean to sound unsympathetic. Truly, I don’t. But you’re not from here, Iris. You don’t know how it is. Fleur is a Kenworthy. We have been the main landholding family of Flixton for centuries. Do you have any idea what sort of scandal would ensue if she married a local farmer?”

  “It can’t be worse than the alternative,” Iris pointed out.

  “Obviously she thinks so,” Marie-Claire said. “And hers is the opinion that matters, don’t you think?”

  Iris stared at her for a long moment, then said, “You’re right,” and turned and stalked away. Heaven help Fleur when she found her.

  “Wait!” Marie-Claire yelled, hitching up her skirts so that she could catch up. “Where are you going?”

  “Where do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” Marie-Claire sounded almost sarcastic, which was enough to give Iris pause. When she glanced over her shoulder, Marie-Claire asked, “Are you going to Fleur or to Richard?”

  Now Iris really did pause. It had not even occurred to her to take this information straight to Richard. But perhaps it should have done. He was her husband. Should not her first priority lie with him?

  It should . . . but this was Fleur’s secret to reveal, not hers.

  “Well?” Marie-Claire demanded.

 
“Fleur,” Iris said curtly. But if Fleur didn’t do the right thing and tell Richard the truth, Iris would be bloody well happy to do it for her.

  “Really?” Marie-Claire said. “I thought surely you’d go straight to Richard.”

  “Then why did you ask?” Iris snapped, resuming her trek up the hill.

  Marie-Claire ignored this. “Fleur won’t tell you anything, you know.”

  Iris stopped for just long enough to spear Marie-Claire with a raging glare. “You did.”

  Marie-Claire froze. “You’re not going to tell her I told you, are you?”

  Iris turned and stared in disbelief. Then she said a word she’d never uttered before and resumed her strides.

  “Iris!” Marie-Claire yelled, running up alongside her. “She’ll kill me!”

  “Really? That’s what you’re worried about?”

  Marie-Claire slumped. “You’re right.” And then she said it again. “You’re right.”

  “Damned right I am,” Iris said under her breath. She marched on. It was amazing how empowering a bit of profanity could be.

  “What will you say to her?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe ‘Are you out of your bloody mind?’”

  Marie-Claire’s mouth fell open. And then, skipping forward to catch up, she asked, “Can I watch?”

  Iris turned, measuring the malevolence in her eyes by the degree to which Marie-Claire drew back. “I am about one step away from clubbing you with a cricket bat,” she hissed. “No you may not watch.”

  Marie-Claire’s expression took on an almost reverential touch. “Does my brother know you’re so violent?”

  “He might by the end of the day,” Iris muttered. She picked up her speed.

  “I’m coming with you!” Marie-Claire shouted from behind her.

  Iris snorted. She didn’t bother to respond.

  Marie-Claire drew up next to her. “Don’t you want to know where she is?”

  “She’s in the orangery.”

  “What—how do you know?”

  “I saw her walking down the path when we left,” Iris snapped. And then, because she felt a ridiculous need to defend herself, she added, “I notice things. It’s what I do.”