“Actually, you’re doing a fairly good job of it.”
She gave him a sheepish smile. “I really do hate playing the cello, though. You could set me down in an orchestra of the finest virtuosos—not that they’d ever allow a woman to play—and I’d still hate it.”
“Why do you do it?”
“Well, I don’t anymore. I don’t have to now that I’m married. I shall never pick up a bow again.”
“It’s good to know I’m good for something,” he quipped. “But honestly, why did you do it? And don’t say you had to. Sarah got out of it.”
“I could never be so dishonest.”
She waited for him to say something, but he only frowned, glancing to the side as if lost in thought.
“I played the cello,” she said, “because it was expected of me. And because it made my family happy. And despite what I say about them, I love them dearly.”
“You do, don’t you,” he murmured.
She looked at him earnestly. “Even after all that, I consider Sarah one of my dearest friends.”
He regarded her with a curiously steady expression. “You obviously possess a high capacity for forgiveness.”
Iris felt herself draw back as she considered this. “I never thought so,” she said.
“I hope you do,” he said quietly.
“I beg your pardon?” Surely she could not have heard that correctly.
But he had already got to his feet and was holding out his hand. “Come, the day awaits.”
Chapter Thirteen
“YOU WANT HOW many baskets?”
Richard pretended not to notice Mrs. Hopkins’s dumbfounded expression. “Just eighteen,” he said jovially.
“Eighteen?” she demanded. “Do you know how long something like that takes?”
“It would be a difficult task for anyone but you,” he demurred.
The housekeeper narrowed her eyes, but he could tell she liked the compliment.
“Don’t you think it’s an excellent idea to bring baskets to the tenants?” he said, before she could come up with another protest. He tugged Iris forward. “It was Lady Kenworthy’s idea.”
“I thought it would be a nice gesture,” Iris said.
“Lady Kenworthy is all that is generous,” Mrs. Hopkins said, “but—”
“We’ll help,” Richard suggested.
Her mouth fell open.
“Many hands make light work, isn’t that something you used to say?”
“Not to you,” the housekeeper retorted.
Iris stifled a laugh. Charming little traitor, she was. But Richard was in far too good a mood to take offense. “The dangers of having servants who’ve known you since school days,” he murmured in her ear.
“School days!” Mrs. Hopkins scoffed. “I’ve known you since you were in—”
“I know exactly how long you’ve known me,” Richard cut in. He didn’t need Mrs. Hopkins mentioning his time in nappies in front of Iris.
“I would like to help, actually,” Iris said. “I am eager to meet the tenants, and I do think that the gifts would be more meaningful if I helped to pack them myself.”
“I don’t know that we even have eighteen baskets,” Mrs. Hopkins grumbled.
“Surely they don’t need to be actual baskets,” Iris said. “Any sort of container would do. And I’m sure you will know the best things with which to fill them.”
Richard just grinned, admiring his wife’s easy handling of the housekeeper. Each day—no, each hour—he learned something new about her. And with each revelation, he realized just how lucky he was that he had chosen her. It was so strange to think that he probably would not have looked twice in her direction if he hadn’t found himself forced to find a bride so quickly.
It was difficult to recall just what he’d thought he’d wanted in a wife. A substantial dowry, of course. He’d had to give that up, but now, as he watched Iris make herself at home in Maycliffe’s kitchen, it no longer seemed so urgent. If the repairs he needed to make to the house had to wait a year or two, so be it. Iris was not the sort to complain.
He thought about the women he had considered before Iris. He could not remember much about them, just that they had always seemed to be dancing or flirting or tapping his arm with a fan. They were women who demanded attention.
Whereas Iris earned it.
With her fierce intelligence and her quiet, sly humor, she had a way of sneaking up on his thoughts. She surprised him at every turn.