“Shall we?” Marie-Claire asked, just bursting with annoyingly chippy energy.
“Mmphghrglick.”
A very small silence, and then—“I beg your pardon?”
Iris growled into her pillow. She really didn’t know how she could have been more clear.
“Iris? Are you unwell?”
Iris finally rolled her body over and forced herself to enunciate as she said, “I am not at my best in the morning.”
Marie-Claire just stared at her.
Iris rubbed her eye. “Perhaps if we depart—what?” The last bit was not much more than a snap, really.
“Ehrm . . .” One corner of Marie-Claire’s mouth stretched out in a bizarre approximation of a grimace. “Your cheek.”
Iris let out an aggrieved sigh. “Pillow crease?”
“Oh. Is that what that is?” Asked with enough perkiness to make Iris want to reach for a weapon.
“Have you never seen one before?” she asked instead.
“No.” Marie-Claire frowned. “I always sleep on my back. I suppose Fleur does, too.”
“I sleep in many positions,” Iris grumbled, “but mostly . . . I sleep late.”
“I see.” Marie-Claire swallowed, but that was her only sign of awkwardness before she added, “Well, you’re awake now, so you might as well get up and meet the day. I don’t think there is any breakfast left in the dining room, but I’m sure Mrs. Hopkins can put together a cold collation. You can bring it with you.”
Iris looked longingly at her bed. She imagined this bed, tidy and sweet with a breakfast tray on it. But Marie-Claire had made a friendly gesture, and Iris knew she must accept. “Thank you,” she said, hoping her face did not belie the effort required to pry the words from her mouth. “That would be lovely.”
“Wonderful!” Marie-Claire beamed. “Shall I meet you in the drive, say in about ten minutes?”
Iris was about to bargain for fifteen, or better yet twenty, but then she thought—she was already awake. In for a penny, in for a pound. Ten minutes. Good Lord.
To Marie-Claire, she said, “Why not?”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER Iris and Marie-Claire were trudging across the western fields of Maycliffe. Iris still wasn’t entirely certain where they were going; Marie-Claire had said something about picking berries, but it seemed far too early in the year for that. Either way, Iris didn’t much care. She had a warm, buttery scone in her hands, and she was fairly certain it was the best thing she had ever eaten. Someone in the kitchens had to be from Scotland. It seemed the only explanation.
They didn’t say much as they made their way down the hill. Iris was busy savoring her breakfast, and Marie-Claire seemed happy enough swinging her basket as she skipped along. But once they reached the bottom and turned onto a well-worn path, Marie-Claire cleared her throat, and said, “I don’t know if anyone has properly thanked you.”
Iris went still, forgetting for a moment even to chew. She had not the pleasure of many conversations with Marie-Claire, and this . . . Well, frankly it surprised her.
“For . . .” Marie-Claire motioned toward Iris’s midsection, her hand making an awkward little circle in the air. “For that.”
Iris returned her eyes to the walking path. Richard had thanked her. It had taken him three days, but in all fairness, she had not given him the opportunity to do so before their conversation the night before. And even if he had tried, if he had banged her door down and insisted that she listen to him, it wouldn’t have mattered. She would not have heard anything he said. She had not been ready to allow him a true conversation.
“Iris?”
“You’re welcome,” Iris said, pretending to be absorbed in extracting a currant from her scone. She really didn’t feel like talking about this with Marie-Claire.
But the younger girl had other ideas. “I know Fleur seems ungrateful,” she persisted, “but she will come around. Eventually.”
“I’m afraid I cannot agree with your assessment,” Iris said. She still had no idea how Richard thought he was going to pull this off without Fleur’s cooperation.
“She’s not stupid, no matter how she might be acting right now. In fact, most of the time she’s not this—well, not quite this emotional.” Marie-Claire’s lips came together, pursing into a thoughtful frown. “She was very close to our mother, you know, more so than either Richard or me.”
Iris hadn’t known that. Richard had not said much of his mother to her, just that she’d died, and he missed her.