They reached the edge of the west lawn, and Iris squinted up at the sky. It was still overcast, but the clouds had grown thinner. The sun might well yet make an appearance. “I’m going to stay outside,” she said.

Fleur looked up, too. “Won’t you want a shawl?”

“Yes, I suppose I will.”

“I can have one of the maids bring one down.”

It was as clear a gesture of friendship as Iris had ever seen. “That would be most helpful, thank you.”

Fleur nodded and entered the house.

Iris walked over to bench and sat down, waiting for the sun.

Chapter Twenty-two

BY NIGHTFALL IRIS was a bit more at ease. She had spent the rest of the day in her own company, feeling only the tiniest pang of guilt when she elected to take her evening meal in her room. After the morning’s interactions with Richard and Fleur, she rather thought she’d earned the right to abstain from conversation for a day or so. The entire exchange had been exhausting.

But sleep proved elusive, no matter how weary she felt, and sometime after midnight she gave up the attempt, threw back her covers, and padded across her bedchamber to the petite writing desk Richard had had brought up the week before.

She looked down at the small selection of books lying on the desktop. She’d finished them all except the history of Yorkshire, which had stubbornly refused to get the least bit interesting, even in the chapter about the War of the Roses. How the author managed to make that dull she’d never know, but she had given up trying to find out.

Gathering the books in her arms, she shoved her feet in her night slippers and headed for the door. She wouldn’t wake anyone if she tiptoed down to the library.

The servants had long since retired, and the house was very quiet. Still, Iris stepped gently, grateful for the soft carpets that muffled her footsteps. At home she’d known every creaky board and squeaky door hinge. She hadn’t had a chance yet to learn the same for Maycliffe.

She paused in her steps, frowning. That was not right. She had to stop thinking of her parents’ house as home. Maycliffe was her home now. She needed to get used to that.

She supposed she was starting to feel that way, at least a little bit. Even with all the drama—and heavens, there was a lot of drama—Maycliffe was starting to settle into her heart. The sofa in the drawing room was her sofa now, no question about that, and already she’d grown accustomed to the unique song of the yellow-bellied birds that nested near her window. She wasn’t sure what they were called, only that they didn’t have them in London.