11
The moment she’d realized who Miss Verity Archer was, Iris had decided not to see her again. How could she possibly befriend Mr. Beckett’s sister? The man was the one major stumbling block in locating her mother’s papers. Nothing good could come of meeting with his sister, nothing at all.
And yet?.? .? .
She clutched her bag tighter to her side as she made her way down the small footpath to the stream where she had agreed to meet Miss Archer the day before.
And yet she had liked the young woman so much.
She had finally found someone she could talk to and share her knowledge with, someone whose passion for the subject nearly matched her own. It had felt good to be appreciated.
Guilt crept across her shoulders at that thought.
Not that the Widows didn’t appreciate her.
They let her know whenever they could how impressed they were with her particular set of talents.
She liked feeling needed by them, liked contributing to what they did—as little as she was able to contribute.
But they did not understand her, not truly. And Miss Archer somehow, some way, did. Not only that, but Iris understood her , the spark of passion in her eyes, that thirst for knowledge that was so very familiar.
And so here she was, hurrying down this natural path gouged by hundreds of pairs of feet through the thick brush, making her way to a person she shouldn’t be meeting.
Perhaps she should have spoken to Sylvia about encountering Miss Archer, should have asked her advice on what she should do about the accidental acquaintance.
Goodness knew she’d had plenty of opportunities last night and this morning.
And it was information they would all wish to know.
Instead, she had concealed it from them.
She could tell herself it was because the information was not pertinent, but that would have been a lie.
It was very pertinent. No, she knew the reason she had kept it from the others: She had been afraid they would tell her to cut off the acquaintance.
And she did not think she would have been able to do so, no matter her guilt.
Oh yes, there was guilt in spades, that her reckless decision could have unintended consequences, that if it were found out, it could endanger what they were working toward.
As she did with amazing frequency. Her hand found her wrist and began picking mercilessly at her skin, skin that was not yet healed after her last conversation with Mr. Beckett.
Which, naturally, made her remember how he had asked permission to take her hand in his when he had noticed her anxious habit, his concern as he’d looked at her skin—as well as her very physical reaction to his touch.
How large and strong and yet incredibly gentle his hand had been, how warm his skin against her own.
And how electrifying his touch. Though their physical connection had been minimal, she had felt that touch in every inch of her body.
Even thinking of it now, her nerves came alive.
She wrapped her fingers around her wrist, forcibly tamping down on her visceral reaction. It had been natural; she would have felt the same toward anyone touching her. She was just not used to strange men grabbing her hand. Yes, that was it. It had to be it.
She was in the middle of convincing herself of that very fact when she rounded a tree and spotted Miss Verity Archer seated on the bank of the stream. Already she had her notebook out, a small tin of watercolors open at her side, and she was working diligently on her latest illustration.
Iris’s heart lurched in a deep affection. It was like looking back in time, seeing herself as she had been. How young and innocent, how unaware of what life was going to throw in her way. If only she had known, she would have cherished her mother and her life as it had been more.
Though wasn’t that the lament of nearly every human on the planet? No one could know their own future, after all. And hindsight was a cruel creature that spared no one.
Miss Archer glanced up, her lips stretching in a wide smile when she spotted Iris. “I was worried you would not come.”
“I almost did not.”
Miss Archer’s smile faltered. “Why?”
She did not even consider lying. “Your brother and I do not get along.”
The girl blinked. No doubt that was not what she had been expecting at all. “You know my brother?”
Iris nodded mournfully as she dropped to the ground beside the girl. “We have met several times since my arrival to the area.” She sighed. “I don’t think he would wish for us to meet. He doesn’t like me much, you see.”
“Doesn’t like you?” Miss Archer demanded. “How could he not like you?”
Iris stared at her, confused by the violence of her outrage, uncertain how to reply.
The girl grew more frustrated, lost in her indignation. “You are so sweet and thoughtful. How could he possibly look at someone like you and dislike you?”
“Oh.” Understanding finally hit Iris. Her face heated in pleasure. “You’re very kind.”
“I’m merely being truthful.” Miss Archer looked across the stream, toward Durand Manor, and glowered. “I love my brother, but he has odd notions at times and can be quite stubborn.” Her frown turned darker. “And he does not keep his promises.”
Which, for some reason, sat wrong to Iris.
The man she had met was a troublesome creature, to be sure.
But she had gotten the sense, in the few times they had spoken, that he was not one to give promises lightly.
Mayhap it was because of his determination to do his job right.
Or maybe it was because of what she had learned about him from their informants.
Here was a man who had been cast out of his respected position as a Bow Street Runner, and lost everything, including security for his family.
His superiors claimed he had disgraced himself.
Yet they had conveniently covered up the reason for that disgrace.
As Sylvia had said, there must be more to that story than met the eye.
Looking at the facts that were available, he had attempted for a year to find a new position and had experienced incredible difficulties because of it.
Yet he had never once abandoned his family and had even brought them with him when he had received this offer of employment.
A man who had no morals when it came to promises would have just as easily left his family behind.
She should know. Hadn’t her father and husband done just that to her?
But Miss Archer was still glaring in the general direction of Durand Manor. Whatever had happened between the siblings, it had angered the girl greatly. And then, because Iris needed to understand, she asked, “He has broken promises to you?”
Miss Archer nodded jerkily. “He vowed to take a day off so we might explore the landscape together. He has since reneged on that promise.”
Iris frowned. No, it was not a life-altering event.
But she knew better than anyone how even small promises broken could lead to so much more heartbreaking ones, that the path to betrayal became easier to traverse.
“I understand broken promises. For someone to make a vow, and then break that vow, is a horrible breach of trust.”
The girl paused, confusion replacing her outrage before that, too, was replaced by?.? .? .? discomfort? “Now that I think of it, perhaps he might not have exactly promised he would join me,” she mumbled.
Iris blinked. “He didn’t?”
Miss Archer winced. “Not in the true sense of the word. He might have declared he would try to join me in the future.” She looked down to her lap. “Now that I truly think of it.”
“Ah.” Iris paused, mulling that over, before continuing, “It’s good there has been no promise broken, then, isn’t it?”
The girl’s lips twisted wryly. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Suddenly she frowned again. “I can still be perturbed about it, though. But shall I assume, seeing as you mentioned he would not approve of our acquaintance, I should keep our meeting secret?”
It was Iris’s turn to wince, for wasn’t she keeping Miss Archer a secret from the other Widows? “I shouldn’t ask that of you,” she replied.
Miss Archer shrugged. “But you are not asking, are you? I’m offering.” She grinned. “There’s quite a difference, you know.”
Which made entirely too much sense. “Oh. Well then, if it doesn’t cause you too much trouble. If you still wish to meet with me, that is.”
“Of course I still wish to meet with you,” Miss Archer exclaimed.
“What a silly thing to say. Very well then. I shall keep our friendship from Oliver, and I will ask my mother to do the same. It shall be no hardship, seeing as he is not home most of the time anyway.” Again that dark look—truly, the girl’s emotions were mercurial—before she smiled brightly again, the budding botanist back.
“But enough of my brother. I wish to learn as much from you as the day allows, and if we continue talking of Oliver, it will take up all our time together. Now,” she declared, taking up her notebook, opening it and thrusting it in front of Iris. “What can you tell me of this plant?”
Once more Iris lost track of the day. Though this time, at least, she had been able to halt their lively discussion before the sun began its descent. They stopped just outside the garden gate of the brick cottage, with Miss Archer looking as tired—yet as happy—as Iris felt.
“Thank you for today, Miss Archer,” Iris said, giving a happy little sigh. “I cannot tell you how wonderful it was. I have not had such a wonderful time in a long while.”
“I should be the one thanking you.” The girl laughed. “But it feels silly having you call me Miss Archer, as if we’re mere acquaintances. After today, I feel you’re more friend than teacher. Please, won’t you call me Verity?”
Iris’s smile widened. “I will, if you call me Iris.”
“What a perfectly perfect name for a botanist,” the girl said.