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.”