The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (11 page)

Two months? No. That would not do.

“Sir, I cannot wait two months,” Richard said quickly.

Iris's father's brows slowly rose.

“I am needed back at my estate.”

“You should have considered this before you compromised my daughter.”

Richard wracked his brain for the best excuse, the one that would most likely give Mr. Smythe-Smith reason to relent. “I am the sole guardian of my two younger sisters, sir. I would be remiss if I did not soon return.”

“I believe you spent several seasons in town a few years back,” Mr. Smythe-Smith countered. “Who had charge of your sisters, then?”

“They lived with our aunt. I lacked the maturity to properly fulfill my duties.”

“Forgive me if I doubt your maturity now.”

Richard forced himself to hold silent. If he had a daughter, he would be just as livid. He thought of his own father, wondered what he would think of this night's work. Bernard Kenworthy had loved his family—Richard had never doubted that—but his approach to fatherhood could best be described as benign neglect. If he were alive, what would he have done? Anything?

But Richard was not his father. He could not tolerate inaction.

“Two months will be perfectly acceptable,” Iris's mother said. “There is no reason you cannot go to your estate and then return for the wedding. To be honest, I would prefer it that way.”

“I wouldn't,” Iris said.

Her parents looked at her in shock.

“Well, I wouldn't.” She swallowed, and Richard's heart ached at the tension he saw in her small frame. “If the decision is made,” she said, “I would rather move forward.”

Her mother took a step toward her. “Your reputation—”

“—might very well already be in tatters. If that's the case, I would much rather be in Yorkshire where I don't know anyone.”

“Nonsense,” her mother said dismissively. “We will wait to see what happens.”

Iris met her mother's eyes with a remarkably steely gaze. “Have I no say in the matter?”

Her mother's lips trembled, and she looked to her husband.

“It shall be as she wishes,” he said after a pause. “I can see no reason to force her to wait. The Lord knows she and Daisy will be at each other's throats the entire time.” Mr. Smythe-Smith turned to Richard. “Iris is not pleasant to live with when she is in ill humor.”

“Father!”

He ignored her. “And Daisy is not pleasant to live with when she is in good humor. The planning of a wedding will make this one”—he jerked his head toward Iris—“miserable and the other one ecstatic. I should have to move to France.”

Richard did not so much as smile. Mr. Smythe-Smith's humor was of the bitterest sort and did not want laughter.

“Iris,” the older gentleman said. “Maria.”

They followed him to the door.

“I shall see you in two days' time,” Iris's father said to Richard. “I expect you will have a special license and settlements prepared.”

“I would do no less, sir.”

As she left the room, Iris looked over her shoulder, and their eyes met.

Why?
she seemed to ask him.
Why?

In that moment, he realized she knew. She knew that he had not been overcome with passion, that this forced marriage had been—albeit poorly—orchestrated.

Richard had never felt so ashamed.

The following week

I
RIS WOKE UP
to thunder on the morning of her wedding, and by the time her maid arrived with breakfast, London was awash with rain.

She walked to her window and peered out, letting her forehead rest against the cool glass. Her wedding was in three hours. Maybe the weather would clear by then. There was an odd little patch of blue off in the distant sky. It looked lonely. Out of place.

But hopeful.

It didn't really matter, she supposed. She wasn't going to get wet. The ceremony was to be held by special license in her family's drawing room. Her journey to marriage consisted of two corridors and a flight of stairs.

She did hope that the roads would not be washed-out. She and Sir Richard were due to depart for Yorkshire that very afternoon. And while Iris was understandably nervous about leaving her home and all that was familiar to her, she'd heard enough of wedding nights to know that she did
not
wish to spend hers under her parents' roof.

Sir Richard did not maintain a home in London, she had discovered, and his rented apartments were not suitable for a new bride. He wanted to take her home, to Maycliffe Park, where she would meet his sisters.

A nervous laugh bubbled through her throat. Sisters. It figured he'd have sisters. If there was one thing in her life that had never been lacking, it was sisters.

A knock on her door jolted her from her thoughts, and after Iris bid her enter, her mother came into the room.

“Did you sleep well?” Mrs. Smythe-Smith asked.

“Not really.”

“I would be surprised if you had. It does not matter how well she knows her groom. A bride is always apprehensive.”

Iris rather thought that it
did
matter how well a bride knew her groom. Certainly she'd be less nervous—or at least nervous in a different way—if she'd known her intended for more than a fortnight.

But she did not say this to her mother, because she and her mother did not talk about such things. They spoke of minutiae and the events of the day, of music and sometimes of books, and most of all, of her sisters and cousins and all their babies. But they did not speak of feelings. That was not their way.

And yet Iris knew she was loved. Her mother might not be the sort to say the words or visit her room with a cup of tea and a smile, but she loved her children with all the fierceness in her heart. Iris had never doubted that, not for a moment.

Mrs. Smythe-Smith sat on the end of Iris's bed and motioned for her to come over. “I do wish you had a lady's maid for your journey,” she said. “It's not at all how it should be.”

Iris stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it all. After everything that had happened in the past week, it was the lack of a
lady's maid
that was not how it should be?

“You've never been good with hair,” her mother said. “To have to dress it yourself . . .”

“I will be just fine, Mama,” Iris said. She and Daisy shared a lady's maid, and when given the choice, the young woman had opted to remain in London. Iris thought it prudent to wait to hire a new maid in Yorkshire. It would make her seem less of an outsider in her new home. Hopefully it would make her
feel
less of an outsider, too.

She climbed back onto her bed and leaned against the pillows. She felt very young, sitting here like this. She could not recall the last time her mother had come into her bedchamber and sat upon her bed.

“I have taught you everything you need to know to properly manage a house,” her mother said.

Iris nodded.

“You will be in the country, so that will be a change, but the principles of management will be the same. Your relationship with the housekeeper will be of the utmost importance. If she does not respect you, no one will. She need not
fear
you—”

Iris glanced down at her lap, hiding her somewhat panicked amusement. The thought of anyone's fearing her was ludicrous.

“—but she must respect your authority,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith concluded. “Iris? Are you listening?”

Iris looked up. “Of course. I'm sorry.” She managed a small smile. “I don't think Maycliffe Park is terribly grand. Sir Richard has described it to me. I'm sure there will be much to learn, but I believe I will be up to the task.”

Her mother patted her hand. “Of course you will.”

There was an oddly awkward moment of silence, then Iris's mother said, “What sort of house is it, Maycliffe? Elizabethan? Medieval? Are the grounds extensive?”

“Late medieval,” Iris replied. “Sir Richard said it was built in the fifteenth century, although there have been several alterations over the years.”

“And the gardens?”

“I'm not sure,” Iris said in slow, careful tones. She was certain her mother had not come to her room to discuss the architecture and landscaping of Maycliffe Park.

“Of course.”

Of course?
Iris was mystified.

“I hope it will be comfortable,” her mother said crisply.

“I'm sure I shall want for nothing.”

“It will be cold, I imagine. The winters in the north . . .” Mrs. Smythe-Smith gave a little shake. “I couldn't bear it. You shall have to take the servants in hand to make sure all the fires are—”

“Mother,” Iris finally interrupted.

Her mother halted her rambling.

“I know you did not come here to talk about Maycliffe.”

“No.” Mrs. Smythe-Smith took a breath. “No, I did not.”

Iris waited patiently while her mother fidgeted in a most uncharacteristic manner, plucking at the light blue counterpane and tapping her fingers. Finally, she looked up, met Iris's eyes dead on, and said, “You are aware that a man's body is not . . . the same as woman's.”

Iris's lips parted with surprise. She had been expecting this discussion, but my, that was blunt.

“Iris?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes, of course. I am aware.”

“These differences are what makes procreation possible.”

Iris almost said, “I see,” except she was fairly certain she didn't. At least, not as much as she would need to.

“Your husband will . . .” Mrs. Smythe-Smith let out a frustrated breath. Iris did not think she had ever seen her mother so discomposed.

“What he will do . . .”

Iris waited.

“He will . . .” Mrs. Smythe-Smith paused, and both of her hands spread in front of her like starfish, almost as if she were steadying herself against thin air. “He will place that part of him that is different inside you.”

“In”—Iris didn't seem quite able to get the word out—“side?”

Her mother's cheeks flushed to an improbable shade of pink. “His part that is different goes in
your
part that is different. That is how his seed enters your body.”

Iris tried to visualize this. She knew what a man looked like. The statues she had seen had not always utilized a fig leaf. But what her mother described seemed most awkward. Surely God, in his infinite wisdom, would have designed a more efficient means of procreation.

Still, she had no reason to doubt her mother. She frowned, then asked, “Does it hurt?”

Mrs. Smythe-Smith's expression grew serious. “I will not lie to you. It is not particularly comfortable, and it does hurt a great deal the first time. But after that it gets easier, I promise. I find it helps to keep one's mind occupied. I usually go over the household accounts.”

Iris had no idea what to say to that. Her cousins had never been so explicit when speaking of their wifely duties, but never had she got the impression they might be using the time to do sums in their heads. “Will I need to do this often?” she asked.

Her mother sighed. “You might. It really depends.”

“On what?”

Her mother sighed again, but this one was through clenched teeth. She had not wished for further questions, that much was clear. “Most women do not conceive the first time. And even if you do, you won't know right away.”

“I won't?”

This time her mother positively groaned. “You will know you are with child when your courses stop.”

Her courses would stop? Well,
that
would be a benefit.

“And besides that,” her mother continued, “gentlemen find pleasure in the act that ladies do not.” She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Depending on your husband's appetites—”

“Appetites?” There would be
food
?

“
Please
stop interrupting me,” her mother practically begged.

Iris closed her mouth instantly. Her mother never begged.

“What I am trying to say,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said in a tight voice, “is that your husband will likely wish to lie with you a great deal. At least in the early days of your marriage.”

Iris swallowed. “I see.”

“Well,” her mother said briskly. She practically jolted to her feet. “We have much to do today.”

Iris nodded. The conversation was clearly over.

“Your sisters will wish to help you dress, I'm sure.”

Iris gave a wobbly smile. It would be nice to have them all in one place. Rose lived the farthest away, in the west of Gloucestershire, but even with only a few days' notice, she had had plenty of time to make it to London for the wedding.

Yorkshire was so much farther away than Gloucestershire.

Her mother departed, but not five minutes later there was another knock on the door.

“Enter,” Iris called out wearily.

It was Sarah, wearing a furtive expression and her best morning frock. “Oh, thank goodness, you're alone.”

Iris immediately perked up. “What is it?”

Sarah glanced back into the hall and then shut the door behind her. “Has your mother been in to see you?”

Iris groaned.

“So she has.”

“I would rather not talk about it.”

“No, that's why I'm here. Well, not to talk about your mother's advice. I'm sure I don't want to know what she said. If it was anything like my mother . . .” Sarah shuddered, then got hold of herself. “Listen to me. Whatever your mother told you about your relations with your husband, ignore it.”

“Everything?” Iris asked doubtfully. “She can't have been
completely
wrong.”

Sarah let out a little laugh and came to sit by her on the bed. “No, of course not. She does have six children. What I mean is . . . well, did she tell you it was dreadful?”