Iris ground her teeth together and flexed her fingers, hoping the motion would be enough to quell the urge to wrap them around Marie-Claire’s neck. She could not believe she was having this conversation. It wasn’t just that Marie-Claire knew that John Burnham was the true father of Fleur’s baby. It wasn’t even that she had chosen not to say anything. What absolutely galled Iris was that Marie-Claire seemed to think she had done the right thing by not saying anything.

Good God, was she living among idiots?

“I need to go back to the house,” Iris announced. She turned and began marching up the hill. The sun was inching to the top of the sky, and the air was lovely and warm, but she wanted nothing more than to shut herself in her room, lock the door, and speak to absolutely no one.

“Iris,” Marie-Claire said, and something in her voice gave Iris pause.

“What?” she asked wearily.

Marie-Claire stood stock-still for several seconds, blinking rapidly. Then she said, “Richard didn’t . . . That is to say, he would never . . .”

“Of course not!” Iris exclaimed, horrified by the mere suggestion. Richard might have surprised her with his advances, but he had not forced himself upon her. He could never do such a thing. He was far too fine a man.

Iris swallowed. She did not wish to dwell upon her husband’s good qualities.

“And you love him,” Marie-Claire said softly. “Don’t you?”

Iris pressed her lips together, breathing furiously through her nose. She could not deny it, but nor would she say it aloud. She had to have more pride than that.

“I’m tired,” she said.

Marie-Claire nodded, and they turned toward home. But they had barely taken ten steps before Iris suddenly thought of something. “Wait a moment,” she said. “Why hasn’t Fleur said anything?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Why did she lie?”

Marie-Claire shrugged.

“She must care for Mr. Burnham,” Iris pressed.

Marie-Claire shrugged again. Iris wanted to hit her.

“You said that she sneaked out to see him,” Iris said. “That would seem to indicate some level of caring.”

“Well, I didn’t ask her about it,” Marie-Claire responded. “She was obviously trying to hide it. Wouldn’t you?”

Iris let out a frustrated breath. “Do you have an opinion on the matter?” she asked, with a slowness that was almost insulting. “Might you have some hypothesis as to why your sister lied about the identity of the father of her unborn child?”

Marie-Claire stared at her as if she were an idiot. “He’s a farmer. I told you that.”

Iris really wanted to hit her. “I understand that he is not the sort of man she might have been expected to wed, but if she cares for him, surely it is better to marry him than to raise their child out of wedlock.”