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.