“She looks remarkably healthy for one who was born during such a difficult time. I do hope your recovery has been complete, my dear.”
“Quite complete, thank you,” Iris replied evenly.
“Of course, of course. Though one does wonder about the wisdom of such extended seclusion.” Lady Downs moved closer. Her tone carried subtle criticism. “My physician always insisted that fresh air and gentle society were essential during confinement. Complete isolation can be so unhealthy.”
The implication hung between them like smoke. These women were probing for weaknesses in their story, searching for inconsistencies that might feed the gossip mills.
“Every situation is unique,” Iris said with cool dignity. “My physician felt privacy was essential given the delicate nature of my condition.”
“Indeed,” Lady Thornbury murmured, though her eyes remained calculating. “How fortunate that all ended so well.”
“Of course, of course. Though one notices she seems rather advanced in her development.” Lady Downs moved closer. Her sharp gaze catalogued every detail. “My sister’s youngest was positively limp at four months. Barely able to hold up her head.”
“Children develop at different rates,” Grace interjected smoothly.
“Yes, they do. But sometimes rapid development suggests… a miscalculation regarding dates.” Lady Tremblay’s smile could have cut glass. “Easy enough to happen when one values privacy over accuracy.”
Heat flooded Iris’s cheeks as the women’s meaning became clear. They were suggesting that Evie was older than she claimed, which would make her conception predate the marriage by an uncomfortable margin.
“Lady Evangeline was born precisely at the date we mentioned,” she said firmly.
“Naturally. Though the resemblance to His Grace is quite striking, isn’t it? Particularly the eyes.” Lady Downs leaned closer to Evie, who had begun to fuss at the attention. “One might almost think she inherited nothing from her mother.”
“Children often favor one parent initially,” Grace interjected, her voice carrying a warning.
“True, true. Though it does make one wonder about the circumstances.” Lady Tremblay straightened with obvious satisfaction.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand your meaning,” Iris said. Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears.
“Oh, nothing untoward, I’m sure. Simply observing that the child seems quite… established for one supposedly born after such a brief marriage.” Lady Thornbury’s laugh tinkled like breaking glass. “Though I suppose stranger things have happened.”
“Indeed,” Lady Downs agreed. “Why, just last week, Lady Morrison was saying how remarkable it was that His Grace settled into fatherhood so naturally. Almost as if he’d had previous experience with infant care.”
Grace stepped forward, her usual warmth replaced by steel. “I think that’s quite enough speculation about my friend’s private affairs.”
“Of course, of course. We meant no offense.” Lady Tremblay’s retreat was strategic rather than genuine. “Just making conversation about such a lovely child.”
They moved on with satisfied smiles, leaving Iris standing frozen beside the pram. Evie had begun to cry earnestly because she was disturbed by the tension that had surrounded their encounter.
“Vultures,” Grace muttered while lifting the baby from her pram. “Don’t listen to them, darling. They’re just jealous because their children look like potatoes.”
But the damage was done.
As Grace soothed Evie with practiced ease, Iris’s mind raced with the implications of what the women had suggested.
Did Evie truly resemble Owen so strongly? And if so, what did that mean for the charade they’d kept up so far?
“You’re thinking too much,” Grace observed as they began the walk home. “I can practically see the wheels turning in your head.”
“They might be right. About the resemblance.”
“So, what if they are? Children often grow to resemble their adoptive parents. It’s one of life’s small kindnesses.”
“But what if she’s not adopted? What if Owen lied about everything, and Evie really is his child from a liaison before our marriage?”
Grace stopped walking and turned to face her directly. “Do you truly believe that?”
Iris thought of Owen’s grief when he spoke of Nicholas, the careful way he’d avoided claiming Evie as his own, and his obvious affection tempered by something that looked like guilt.
