by Julia Quinn
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?”
“Not in so many words, but it did sound rather awkward.”
“I’m sure it can be, if you don’t love your husband.”
“I don’t love my husband,” Iris said plainly.
Sarah sighed, and her voice lost some of its authority. “Do you at least like him?”
“Yes, of course.” Iris thought about the man who would, in just a few short hours, be her husband. She might not be able to say that she loved him, but to be fair, there was nothing really wrong with him. He had a lovely smile, and thus far, he had treated her with the utmost respect. But she hardly knew him. “I might grow to love him,” she said, wishing she spoke with more authority. “I hope I do.”
“Well, that’s a start.” Sarah pressed her lips together in thought. “He seems to like you, too.”
“I’m fairly certain he does,” Iris replied. Then, in quite a different tone, she added, “Unless he is a spectacular liar.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” Iris said quickly. She wished she hadn’t spoken. Her cousin knew why the marriage was taking place in such a hurry—the whole family did—but no one knew the truth behind Sir Richard’s proposal.
Even Iris.
She sighed. It was better if everyone thought
it had been a romantic declaration of love. Or at least that he’d thought the whole thing through and decided they were well matched. But not this . . . this . . .
Iris didn’t know how to explain it, even to herself. She just wished she could shake this nagging suspicion that something was not quite right.
“Iris?”
“Sorry.” Iris gave her head a little shake. “I’ve been somewhat distracted lately.”
“I should think so,” Sarah replied, seemingly accepting that explanation. “Still, I have spoken to Sir Richard only a few times, but he seems to be a kind man, and I think he will treat you well.”
“Sarah,” Iris began, “if your intent was to ease my apprehension, I must tell you that you are failing miserably.”
Sarah made a rather amusingly frustrated sound and clasped her head in her hands. “Just listen to me,” she said. “And trust me. Do you trust me?”
“Not really.”
Sarah’s expression was beyond comical.
“I’m joking,” Iris said with a smile. “Please, I must be allowed my share of humor on my wedding day. Especially after that conversation with my mother.”
“Just remember,” Sarah said, reaching forward to take Iris’s hand. “It can be lovely, what happens between a husband and wife.”
Iris’s expression must have been dubious, because Sarah added, “It’s very special. Truly, it is.”
“Did someone tell you of this before your wedding?” Iris asked. “After your mother spoke to you? Is that why you thought to come and tell me this?”
To Iris’s great surprise, Sarah flushed a deep pink. “Hugh and I . . . ah . . . we might have . . .”
“Sarah!”
“Shocking, I know. But it was wonderful, truly, and I could not help myself.”
Iris was stunned. She knew that Sarah had always been a freer spirit than she was, but she never would have dreamed that she would have given herself to Hugh before marriage.
“Listen,” Sarah said, squeezing Iris’s hand. “It does not matter if Hugh and I anticipated our vows. We are married now, and I love my husband, and he loves me.”
“I don’t judge you,” Iris said, although she had a feeling she did, maybe a little bit.
Sarah regarded her with a frank expression. “Has Sir Richard kissed you?”
Iris nodded.
“Did you like it? No, don’t answer, I can tell from your face that you did.”
Not for the first time Iris cursed her fair skin. There wasn’t a person in England who blushed with as much vigor and depth as she did.
Sarah patted her hand. “That’s a good sign. If his kisses are lovely, then the rest will most likely be, too.”
“This has been the strangest morning of my life,” Iris said weakly.
“It’s about to get stranger”—Sarah stood and gave Iris an exaggerated tip of the head—“Lady Kenworthy.”
Iris threw a pillow at her.
“I must away,” Sarah said. “Your sisters will be here at any moment to help you get ready.” She moved to the door and placed her hand on the knob, glancing back at her cousin with a smile.
“Sarah!” Iris called out, before she could exit the room.
Sarah tilted her head in question.
Iris gazed at her cousin, and for the first time in her life, realized just how much she loved her. “Thank you.”
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Iris was Lady Kenworthy in truth. She had stood before a man of God, and she had said the words that would bind her to Sir Richard for life.
He was still such a mystery. He had continued to court her during the brief time between her compromise and the wedding, and she could not say that he was anything but charming. But she still could not bring herself to trust in him without reservation.
She did like him. She liked him very much. He had a wicked sense of humor, ideally matched to her own, and if pressed, she would have said that she believed him to be a man of good moral fiber and principles.
But it wasn’t so much of a belief as it was a supposition, or in truth, just a hope. Her gut told her all would be well, but she didn’t really like to trust her gut. She was far too practical for that. She preferred tangibility; she desired proof.
Their courtship had not made sense. She simply could not get past that.
“We must make our farewells,” her husband—her husband!—said to her shortly after the wedding breakfast. The celebration, like the ceremony, had been simple, although not precisely small. The size of Iris’s family had made that impossible.
Iris had passed through the events of the day in a daze, nodding and smiling at what she hoped were the correct moments. Cousin after cousin stepped forth to congratulate her, but with every kiss on the cheek and pat on the hand, she could only think that she was one moment closer to stepping into Sir Richard’s carriage and riding away.
Now that time had come.
He handed her up, and she took a seat facing front. It was a nice carriage, well-appointed and comfortable. She hoped it was well sprung; according to her husband it was a four-day journey to Maycliffe Park.
A moment after she was settled, Sir Richard entered the carriage. He gave her a smile, then sat opposite her.
Iris peeked out the window at her family, gathered together in front of her home. No, not her home. Not any longer. She felt the mortifying prick of tears in her eyes and dug hastily in her beaded reticule for a handkerchief. She barely had her bag open, however, before Sir Richard leaned forward, proffering his own.
There was no point in denying her tearfulness, Iris supposed as she took the handkerchief. He could see her well enough. “I’m sorry,” she said as she dabbed her eyes. Brides weren’t meant to cry on their wedding days. Surely it could not portend anything good.
“You have nothing for which to apologize,” Sir Richard said kindly. “I know this has all been quite an upheaval.”
She gave him the best smile she could manage, which wasn’t much of one, really. “I was just thinking . . .” She motioned to the window. The carriage had not yet begun to move, and if she tilted her head just so, she could see what had once been her bedroom window. “It’s no longer my home.”
“I hope you will like Maycliffe.”
“I’m sure I will. Your descriptions are lovely.” He had told her of the grand staircase and secret passageways. A room where King James I had slept. There was an herb garden near the kitchen and an orangery in the back. It wasn’t attached to the house, though, and he’d told her that he’d long thought of connecting them.
“I shall do my best to make you happy,” he said.
She appreciated that he said that here, where they had no audience. “As shall I.”
The carriage began to move, its pace slow in the congested streets of London.
“How long shall we travel today?” Iris asked.
“About six hours in total, if the roads were not too affected by this morning’s rain.”
“Not such a long day.”
He smiled in agreement. “This close to town there are plenty of opportunities to take a rest, should you need one.”
“Thank you.”
It was by far the most polite, proper, and boring conversation they had ever had. Ironic, that.
“Do you mind if I read?” Iris asked, reaching into her reticule for a book.
“Not at all. I envy you, as a matter of fact. I am wholly unable to read in a moving carriage.”
“Even when you are facing forward?” She bit her lip. Good heavens, what was she saying? He would construe that to mean she wished for him to come sit next to her.
Which was not what she was saying at all.
Not that she would mind.
Which wasn’t to say that she desired it.
She was completely indifferent. Really. She did not care one way or another where he chose to sit.
“It matters not which way I am facing,” Sir Richard answered, reminding Iris that she had indeed asked him a question. “I find that
staring out the window at a far-off spot often helps.”
“My mother says the same thing,” Iris agreed. “She, too, has difficulty reading in carriages.”
“I usually just ride alongside,” he said with a shrug. “It’s easier all the way around.”
“Did you not wish to do so today?” Oh, blast. Now he would think she was trying to boot him from the carriage. Which was also not what she was saying.
“I might later on,” he told her. “In town we move slowly enough that I’m not affected.”
She cleared her throat. “Right. Well, I’ll just read now, if you don’t mind.”
“Please.”
She opened her book and began to read. In a closed carriage. Alone with her new handsome husband. She read a book.
She had a feeling this was not the most romantic way to begin a marriage.
But then again, what did she know?
Chapter Nine
IT WAS NEARLY eight in the evening when they finally stopped for the day. Iris had been alone in the carriage for some time. They had made one brief stop so that everyone could see to their needs, and upon the resumption of their journey, Sir Richard had elected to ride alongside the vehicle. Iris told herself she did not feel slighted. He suffered from motion sickness; she did not wish him to become ill on their wedding day.
But it did mean she was left alone, and as the evening wore on, and the light grew dimmer, she could not even escape into the pages of her book. Now that they had left London behind, their pace was swifter, and the horses fell into a steady, soothing rhythm. She must have fallen asleep, because one moment she was somewhere in Buckinghamshire, and the next someone was gently shaking her shoulder and calling her name.
“Iris? Iris?”
“Mmmbrgh.” She never had woken up well.
“Iris, we’ve arrived.”
She blinked a few times until her husband’s face came into focus in the dim evening light. “Sir Richard?”
He smiled indulgently. “I should think you might be able to dispense with the ’Sir.’”
“Mmmmfh. Yes.” She yawned, shaking out her hand, which had fallen asleep. Her foot, too, she realized. “All right.”