22. Chapter 22

Chapter twenty-two

“ Your tea, my lady,” Beatrice said, placing the tray on Iris’s desk. “Brewed with those herbs you asked me to get from the pharmacy.”

“Thank you, Beatrice,” Iris replied.

“Sorry for the wait on it. I was helping Mrs. Pratt in the kitchen since her assistant is ill.”

Iris checked her watch. She hadn’t realized she rang for tea almost half an hour ago. She was so involved in her correspondence, she didn’t notice the hands of the clock ticking along. Without Rowland around, she had a compulsive need to occupy herself. Otherwise, she knew she would spend the day in bed, a hand between her legs, trying to keep the ache she felt for him at bay until he returned.

“Quite all right,” she said.

She picked up another letter and scanned the page, only to realize she’d read it already. She huffed out a sigh and set it back down, reaching for the next one, but that one was familiar too. Had she already gone through all her correspondence? How was she supposed to spend the rest of her day?

Beatrice had one foot out the door before Iris called out to her.

“Yes, my lady?” she said, turning around.

“Er. How shorthanded is Mrs. Pratt?” Iris asked. She couldn’t believe what she was about to say. “Perhaps…I could be her assistant for the day.”

Beatrice blinked several times. “My lady?”

Iris got to her feet and pushed her shoulders back. “I don’t have much kitchen experience, but I can certainly follow directions.”

Beatrice glanced around, as if searching for someone else Iris could be talking to. Iris bit back a laugh.

“I’m quite serious,” she said. “I want to help.”

Beatrice started to smile. “Right this way, my lady.”

Together, they went downstairs.

Initially, everyone in the servant’s hall stiffened when Iris arrived, but she assured them they could relax, and she went into the kitchen. Beatrice tried to help her into an apron, but Iris insisted she could manage that on her own.

“About time you got back, Beatrice,” Mrs. Pratt said, a mixing bowl in her hand, whisking something yellow around inside. She was a plump woman, easily in her fifties, with graying dark hair beneath her bonnet. Her dedication to her work was clear with how long it took for her to look up. “I’ve got bread to flatten and roll out, and—oh, my lady!”

Mrs. Pratt’s already rosy face went a deeper shade of red, and she slammed the bowl down in order to stand up straight and acknowledge Iris.

“It’s all right,” Beatrice said. “She’s here to help.”

Mrs. Pratt sputtered. “W-what?”

“I heard your assistant was ill and I’m here to take her place so poor Beatrice doesn’t get overwhelmed,” Iris said. “Besides, I need her mending a gown I intend to wear for a guest I’m expecting later this week.”

The guest was Rowland, but Iris didn’t need the servants knowing that. Or that she also had Beatrice hard at work mending her lingerie too. Rowland was so rough with her garments, she threatened to start wearing burlap around him, to which he replied that would only make him stronger. Iris had to clear her head of that before she got carried away. Beatrice left them with a nod.

“Well…” Mrs. Pratt said with a slow smile. “Thank you very much, my lady.”

“Of course,” Iris said. “You mentioned bread that needed flattening?”

“Oh, yes.”

Mrs. Pratt bustled over to the counter nearest the window and uncovered a large bowl filled with dough that was about to spill over the edge. She set it on the prep counter in front of Iris.

“I’ll let you do the fun bit, my lady,” she said. “Punch it.”

“Punch it?” Iris gasped.

“Give it a good wallop.”

“My word!”

“It helps to think of someone you don’t like very much.”

Iris laughed. “Give me a moment to think of someone.”

Her mind first went to Lewis, but she found she didn’t care enough about him anymore to want to punch him. Instead, she thought of Bishop Goddard. She didn’t know what he looked like, but he gave Rowland all that trouble, and had threatened little Claire, so that was reason enough. She pulled back her fist and rammed it into the dough, which deflated upon contact.

“Well done, my lady!” Mrs. Pratt praised. “I should hate to cross you.”

“You feed me, Mrs. Pratt. You could be a secret ax murderer, and I still wouldn’t be cross with you. ”

Mrs. Pratt chuckled. “All right, now we’ve got to knead it and cut it into four loaves.”

She showed Iris how to fold the dough over itself to get the right shape before separating it into the loaves. They buttered the loaf pans, filled them about halfway, and then left them to rise.

“Here, my lady, whisk this sauce,” Mrs. Pratt instructed.

Iris took the bowl with one hand and the whisk in the other. “What’s the secret to whisking?”

“It’s all in the wrist, my lady. More of a back and forth motion instead of circular like when you’re stirring.”

Iris flicked her hand back and forth, and the brown, vinegary sauce danced around the inside of the bowl.

“You’re a natural, my lady!” Mrs. Pratt said.

“Thank you!” Iris beamed.

It felt good to be working with her hands. To be doing something meaningful with her day. To be contributing. It made her think of The Rose Garden, and how much that work could accomplish. If something as simple as making bread and dressing could satisfy her that immensely, she was sure working with women who needed help would be the most rewarding thing in her life. She didn’t need marriage or children, she needed to be helping others.

“My lady, can I ask you something?” Mrs. Pratt said, suddenly serious. “It may be out of turn, but I must know.”

Iris stopped whisking, her heart dropping. “All right.”

Mrs. Pratt leaned in close. “Is it true his lordship is thinking of installing a telephone in the house?”

She said it as if a telephone were something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe .

“Mrs. Pratt, you had me thinking there was something serious,” Iris lightly scolded, putting a hand over her chest. “All that for a telephone?”

“So, it’s true then?” Mrs. Pratt said.

“Yes, you’ve heard correctly. My brother wants to modernize the house,” Iris explained. “But not to worry, it shouldn’t interfere with your work down here.”

Mrs. Pratt shook her head and chopped some onions, reducing the bulbs to miniature cubes with each crisp slice of the knife. “I don’t understand all these modern contraptions. What’s wrong with sending letters like we always have?”

“What if there’s something immediate?” Iris said. She started on the carrots, but holding the knife was foreign enough that she had to study Mrs. Pratt’s hand for a moment to copy the shape. She made her first cut. “Urgency is what makes the telephone handy.”

“I dunno…”

“Surely, there’s something you’re excited for in the modern world?”

“When they come up with something to chop onions for you, that’s when I’ll get excited. Until then, I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

Iris smiled, amused.

“Oh, and perhaps something easier to manage than the corset,” Mrs. Pratt continued. “Surely the men are tired of fiddling with such a troublesome thing. You’d think they’d have already designed something simpler.”

Iris snorted and clapped a hand over her mouth. Mrs. Pratt started and looked at her with wide eyes.

“Oh, my lady, I’m so sorry! That’s wasn’t appropriate, I—”

“No, no, it’s all right!” Iris assured her through giggles. She wouldn’t dream of telling the cook the advancements in lingerie were well under way. Iris herself hardly ever wore a corset anymore. “It’s only…I think you’re absolutely right.”

Mrs. Pratt grinned. “Just so, my lady.”

“Lady Iris!”

Iris turned to find Mr. Oliver coming into the kitchen.

“Yes, Mr. Oliver?”

“His lordship is asking for you. He’s in his study.”

“I’ll be right up,” Iris said. She untied the apron and hung it on the rack by the door. She turned toward the cook before leaving. “Thank you for letting me help today, Mrs. Pratt. If your assistant is ever ill again, you know who to call.”

“Yes, my lady,” Mrs. Pratt said, still smiling.

Humming, Iris made her way upstairs to her brother’s study. When she arrived, she found Hugh looking elated. So much so, the grin on his face was almost crazed. She halted, giving him a once over.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Better than all right,” he replied, his voice tight with excitement. “I’ve received the most wonderful news—” he stopped short, brow furrowing. “What’s on your face?”

Iris swiped at her cheeks, and a dusting of white powder floated down. “Oh. Flour.”

“Flour?”

“I was helping in the kitchen.”

Hugh raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me like that. What’s this news?”

“Cecilia’s great aunt has died,” Hugh said.

Iris shook her head. “I’m sorry…how is that good news?”

“She’s left Cecilia a great sum of money. Enough to pay back the remainder of my debt to the Sinclairs.”

Iris blinked. She had nearly forgotten the original reason Rowland had come into her life. That day he’d carried her up the stairs felt like it was years ago. But he’d given her something that day—some semblance of power over the estate.

“It can all go back to normal, Iris,” Hugh went on. “No more tours of our house, we can lower the farmers’ rent next year. You can even put this Rose Garden project to rest. Everything can go back to the way it was.”

Her stomach twisted. “I’m not giving up The Rose Garden, Hugh. It was never a ploy to raise money to go toward your debt.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No.” She scowled at him. “Is that all you thought it was?”

“Certainly. I thought you were doing everything in your power to save the estate.”

She imagined punching that confused pout off his face. “Why on earth would I do all that to save an estate I have no right to? Which you only allowed my help in saving because of the guilt you felt after pawning me off to a gangster!”

“I thought you had forgiven me for that.”

“I have, but not everything I’ve done since then has been in pursuit of your goals. I have my own, you know!”

She cut her gaze away from him to catch her breath, still in disbelief. How could he think The Rose Garden was a front to get his debt paid off? Did Hugh truly not understand her on such a fundamental level? And worse, he wanted everything to go back to the way it was before. Where she was merely an accessory in his home, allowed to remain living there out of the kindness of his heart and a sense of family duty.

She looked at her brother again. “I’m not giving it up.”

“All right, if it amuses you,” he said. “No need to get upset.”

A spark of ire ignited in her again. But she realized he was no different from any of the men in her life. Her projects were unimportant; womanly whims, not true business. The only one who saw value in her work was Rowland. And suddenly, his investment didn’t feel like charity. He believed in her. With Rowland’s support, she didn’t need her brother’s validation.

“Fine,” she said, simmering down.

“Iris, you must realize what’s important here,” Hugh said. He crossed around the desk and put his hands on her shoulders. “We will finally be free of him.”

All the anger inside her melted away, and a chill took its place that resembled worry. A life without Rowland didn’t sound like freedom. The thought of it sent Iris’s heart into a tailspin.

“I…”

“I know what a relief this must be,” Hugh continued. “He did a horrible thing to you, and has been lingering ever since. I haven’t felt like I could send him away with the debt hanging over us, but I can finally be the brother you deserve and remove him from our lives.”

She scrambled for something to say, but couldn’t find the words. How could she explain to her brother, who thought that Rowland had forced himself on her, that she was now his more than willing lover? That the last thing she wanted was Rowland out of her life? For a fleeting second, she considered asking him instead to force Rowland to propose, to protect her reputation, but she didn’t want that either. Things were perfect the way they were.

“Iris?”

She met Hugh’s gaze. “Sorry.”

“I see this is overwhelming you,” he said. “Not to worry, the next time he comes to collect, I’ll send him on his way. You won’t have to face him again.”

She knew that wasn’t true, but even the suggestion that she had seen Rowland for the last time broke her heart.