“Lily feels very strongly that she must set an example for the twins and never put a foot wrong,” Lady Iris said. “The earl reinforces that fear by finding fault with Lily rather than praising her many virtues.”
“Praise Lily, appreciate her.” Clonmere said.
“Exactly. Hyacinth is torn, as children in the middle can be, between loyalty to Holly, her younger twin, and a natural yearning to have the status Lily can claim as the eldest.”
Lady Iris was the eldest, though she described her siblings as if she were their doting governess rather than their sister.
“So I should reassure Lady Hyacinth, and encourage her to be herself rather than somebody’s sister.”
That earned him a glance, searching, thoughtful, not particularly happy. “Yes, Your Grace. A good insight. Holly has learned to be observant, because she must fortify herself with information before she attempts to compete with the other two. She’s quiet, easily upset, and often overlooked unless she’s dressed exactly as her sister.”
“I should be attentive to Holly.”
“You are perceptive,” Lady Iris said. “One is relieved to reach that conclusion.”
Appreciative, reassuring, attentive, perceptive… Those qualities struck Clonmere as the role of an older brother, an uncle even. Of course, a husband should also have those traits—as should a wife.
“What of joy, Lady Iris? What of humor, passion, and dreams?” What of
The companion studied the trees overhead. Boru was trying to sneak his nose closer to the mare’s quarters. Clonmere shortened the reins again, though only a few inches.
“You asked me about their worries, Your Grace. What else would you like to know?”
Clonmere’s siblings would be surprised to learn that he was perceptive, and yet, he did grasp that he could not ask Lady Iris about her own fears and dreams. Instead, he peppered her with queries about her sisters—their favorite desserts, their preferences in terms of pets, the activities they enjoyed in Town and in the country.
Despite Lady Iris’s loyal efforts, Clonmere’s pictures of Lily, Holly, and Hyacinth became a predictable sketches: Dancing, shopping, needlework, watercolors. Light reading—whatever that meant—pianoforte, shopping, the theater. Italian opera, shopping, ices at Gunter’s, the Royal Academy’s art exhibitions, and for variety, another spate of shopping.
Lady Iris was doing her best to present her sisters as perfect duchesses-in-waiting and failing miserably. He listened to her replies not because of what they revealed about her sisters, but because of what they revealed about her.
She was loyal, honest, kind, observant, a very competent whip, and the only one of Falmouth’s daughters Clonmere would even consider offering for.
“JOHN FALLON, you have lost what few wits the Lord endowed you with.” Hattie marched into Falmouth’s study, angrier than she’d ever been with him, which was very angry indeed. “I did not speak out when you dismissed the French tutor, and made Iris responsible for guiding her sisters in a foreign language, because Iris was flattered to have the responsibility. I did not speak out when you refused to purchase Iris’s frocks, because she can make far better dresses than the modistes would. I did not speak out when you encouraged that awful Mr. Harman to pay Iris his addresses.”
The earl remained seated behind his desk, proof that manners had followed chivalry down Mayfair’s jakes.
“Harriet, if you wish to discuss a matter of significance with me, you may make an appointment with Snetten. The press of business does not allow me to humor you at this time.”
Snetten, poor lad, was Falmouth’s secretary and whipping boy. He was frequently the last member of the household to bed, staying up until all hours in the kitchen, copying correspondence for his lordship.
“Snetten was never married to my cousin. Snetten is not the head of this family. Snetten is doubtless daft—witness he accepted employment with you—but I’ll not discuss your ludicrous schemes through an intermediary.”
Hattie knew better than to sit, because then Falmouth would rise, pace around her once or twice while offering pomposities of no relevance whatsoever, and then leave the room.
Falmouth tossed his quill pen to the blotter and heaved up a longsuffering sigh. “Harriet, the girls must marry. Would you have them end up as you have, a poor relation, dependent on the charity of distant family?”
Over the years, Hattie had endured a barrage of such slurs, which were in fact, veiled threats.
“I am not related to you, thank God, but I am the closest thing your daughters have to a respectable chaperone. Toss me out on my ear, and you’ll have to pay for a companion while you explain to polite society why I’m begging in the streets.”
She was tempted to do that. She could sit in Hyde Park with a begging bowl, moaning piteously about Lord Falmouth’s cruelty—though that would reflect poorly on his daughters.
