16
Iris would have been happy thinking of that kiss for the next decade at least. Goodness, it was no wonder people did all sorts of questionable things for physical pleasure.
But one could not very well think of kissing a man while in the presence of his sister. Or his mother, for that fact, she thought as she spied that woman in the door of the cottage as they trudged up the lane.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Archer fussed as she hurried out to meet them, “you must be chilled through. This morning has been particularly cold, hasn’t it? Come inside and we’ll get you into something dry, and you can warm yourself before you head home.”
In no time Iris had been changed into one of Verity’s frocks, a lovely if faded pink muslin, made soft with care and wear.
She peered at herself in the looking glass in the girl’s room, feeling she was looking at someone completely new.
There was the same rounded face with pointed chin, the same wide green eyes, the same practically curveless form and riot of blond—albeit damp—curls atop her head.
Yet there was something different that went beyond the unfamiliar dress in its unfamiliar hue. It was there in the tinge of color that kissed her cheeks, in the sparkle in her eyes, in the way she held her shoulders. What had put it there?
That question, however, did not take her more than a single heartbeat to answer.
Oliver had somehow touched her in ways that were changing her.
Or, rather, he was uncovering a part of her that had lain dormant all these years, just waiting for someone to awaken it.
Hadn’t she seen that same concept in play herself with Heloise, as she’d fallen in love with her Ethan?
She froze, smile dropping from her face.
Love? Could that mean she was falling for Oliver?
She quickly shrugged off that fanciful thought, laughing lightly at her overactive imagination.
Surely there was no correlation. She could not possibly be falling in love with him.
Did she like that he did not think of her as something breakable that needed to be coddled?
Yes. Did she enjoy his kisses? Also yes.
Did she think of him when they were not together and ache to be with him and dream of him at night? Yes, yes, and yes.
But that did not mean she was falling in love with him. And she would prove it by putting him from her mind completely. He had already returned to his post at Durand Manor after seeing her and Verity safely home and changing into something dry himself. There was no reason to think of him at all.
As if to mock her, a knock sounded at the door and she jumped, pathetically futile visions of Oliver filling her head as she called out hoarsely, “Yes?”
It was not that man who opened the door, however, but his mother. Something that should not have disappointed her as much as it did.
“Are you finding everything to your liking, Mrs. Rumford?”
“Yes, thank you,” Iris said, face burning hot as she forced a smile. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”
“Nonsense,” she replied kindly. “You are no trouble at all. But that color looks lovely on you, my dear. Pink suits you.”
Iris looked down at herself, smoothing her hands over the soft material. “I’ve taken to wearing earth tones, the better to hide any stains I might accrue from my work. I cannot recall when I last wore a gown of this hue. It must have been during my London season, nearly fifteen years ago.”
“Oh, a London season.” Mrs. Archer sighed, her gaze going distant. “When I was young I had a season.”
Iris blinked at that unexpected bit of news. “Did you really, ma’am?”
“I did.” She smiled, a hint of mischief to it. “You may be surprised, considering what type of families typically give their daughters seasons.”
“What? Oh!” Realization crashed over her, at how horribly she had insulted the woman. “I am so sorry. I never meant—”
“I’m teasing you,” the other woman interrupted, laughing.
She patted her arm. “I know you didn’t mean any harm.
My family was quite well-off, you see. And because of their position in society, they had some very?.
.? .? rigid expectations for me, ones that certainly did not include me marrying Oliver’s father, someone they saw as beneath our social standing.
” She smiled, eyes misty with happy memories.
“But I loved him, very much. So I married him despite their wishes and was cut off for it.”
“I’m sorry,” Iris said. And she meant it. She tried to imagine her mother turning her back on her because of a decision she made. She could not conceive of such a thing, no matter how much her mother might have disagreed with her choice.
Mrs. Archer shrugged. “It’s all in the past. And I have never once regretted my decision to leave home for the man I loved.
We were very happy in the short time fate allotted us, and I would not have traded it for anything.
That does not mean, of course, that I do not look back on my debut fondly.
It is a lovely time in one’s youth, don’t you agree? ”
Iris winced. “I would more than likely call my season stressful, or horrendous, or torturous. I was foolish to have begged for one. But I wanted, for once in my life, to not live in fear, to do what was expected of girls my age. My mother agreed, though reluctantly.” She gave Mrs. Archer a pained smile.
“And then I got there, and realized I had been a fool, and was too prideful to admit I had made a horrible blunder, though I knew my mother would have understood and gladly brought me back home.”
Mrs. Archer looked at her with compassion. “You and your mother must have been very close. How hard it must have been to lose her.”
“Yes,” Iris replied quietly, hugging herself about the middle as the old dull ache filled her chest. “She was my whole world. I miss her dearly.” She smiled sadly.
“It is strange, isn’t it, how small, mundane things can seem so important once you cannot experience them any longer?
Like the sounds of her singing to herself in the morning, or how she would bring home a book she thought I would like, or even just her brushing my hair. ”
“Yes,” Mrs. Archer said softly, the taste of deep understanding in it.
“We do not realize the things we take for granted, do we? In retrospect, they are even more precious than the larger events in life.” She gave Iris a considering look.
“But perhaps I might give you some of that comfort, if even a small bit. Have a seat, my dear.”
Iris blinked. “A seat?”
“Yes.” She guided Iris toward Verity’s small dressing table, gently pushing her to sitting on the stool.
At once Iris knew what she was about. “Oh, you needn’t, Mrs. Archer,” she protested, twisting to face her. “I never intended for you to do something of this sort when I spoke of my mother.”
“I know,” the woman said. “I’m doing it because I wish to.
And anyway, with how much you have given Verity these last days, it is the least I can do.
” When Iris made to protest once more, the woman quieted her by taking her shoulders and forcibly turning her to face the small mirror.
“If it makes you feel any better,” she continued as she began to pull pins from the damp, tangled mass, “I am being purely selfish. I have not had cause to brush my Verity’s hair for some time.
She prefers to do it herself. This is a way for me to relive some happy memories.
” She laughed. “So you see, I am taking advantage of your kindness once more.”
While Iris often did not understand small nuances in speech and actions that were not direct indicators of a person’s thoughts, she nevertheless knew just what Mrs. Archer was doing.
By taking all benefit for this kindness on herself, she was absolving Iris of any guilt she might feel in accepting.
That selflessness reminded her of her mother, so much so that, when the first pull of the brush through her hair began, the sting of hot tears burned her eyes.
“There is something wonderfully comforting,” Mrs. Archer murmured as she continued her ministrations in long, slow strokes, gently working at some of the more stubborn tangles with infinite gentleness, “in having one’s hair brushed.
One should not have to forgo the pleasure simply because one has grown up. ”
Which was a lovely sentiment. Indeed, she had not thought to ever experience this again.
Such acts of caring were often relegated to childhood, weren’t they?
Though quite often, growing up did not erase the need for them.
As was proven when the burning behind her eyes increased.
This time, however, it was accompanied by a softening in the region of her chest, a thawing of something she had not even realized had been frozen as childhood memories assailed her, of her mother’s voice and the pull of the brush through her hair and the soft, warm towel she’d been wrapped in after her bath.
Overcome, she asked, trying to distract herself from the overwhelming welling of emotions within her, “But does it not pain you to do something of this sort?”
“You mean because of my hands?” Mrs. Archer gave her a wry smile in the looking glass. “No matter how bad they might get, I hope I can always do at least this much for a daughter.”
Iris blinked. “But I am not your daughter.”
The other woman did not say a word at that.
But as Iris watched her face in the looking glass, the soft look in her eyes as she continued her gentle ministrations made her heart squeeze in her chest. Sylvia had done her best to take her mother’s place in her life, to care for her and love her as she thought her dearest friend would have done.
And Iris was grateful for it, every moment of every day.