Chapter Text
Iris lifted her skirts and with a loud cry flew across the courtyard, running as fast as her new heels would allow.
Mrs. West had scarcely stepped out of the carriage when Iris, in her flurry of floral skirts and fraying brown curls, stumbled in front of her.
“Iris? My good—”
“Sister!” Iris threw her arms around Mrs. West, wrapping her in a tight embrace. “My god, it’s good to see you!”
Mrs. West chuckled, eventually prying Iris off her long enough to get a good look at her. “It’s good to see you too, Sister. But my,” her fingertips tenderly felt Iris’ cool cheeks, “you’re looking thin, Love. Are you getting enough sleep?”
Iris swatted her hand away and frowned. “Father has been writing to you about me, hasn’t he? Well, don’t believe a word he says—I’m perfectly fine. In fact, I couldn’t be better.”
It was very typical of her father to believe that the smallest alteration in her appearance or mood was evidence of some deadly disease. That she could drop dead at any moment, without a warning. Though tiresome, his views weren’t completely unfounded—Iris had much sympathy for him because, after all, her mother had unexpectedly fallen ill, dying mere days later. Iris had been six then. She was twelve when Rudolph, her older brother, married Mary Allen, now Mrs. West. Soon after, Rudolph and Mary moved to London and Iris was all her father had left.
At the time, Iris had vowed to herself that she would never leave her father. It was a promise she intended to keep, however difficult and controlling he could be. Of course, that meant Iris would never marry and move away, but she believed that a small sacrifice as she loved her father dearly and believed that no man’s affections for her could match his.
Mary shook her head, smiling. “I’m only teasing. Though, I do wish he had told me how unusually lovely you’ve become. Far more beautiful than I remember.”
And just then, Rudolph stepped out of the carriage and upon seeing Iris, he threw out his arms crying, “Little sister!” He was tall and incredibly broad-shouldered, strong enough that without meaning to he lifted Iris off the ground as they embraced.
“Where is he?” Iris said, her nails digging into the cool material of his coat. “You didn’t leave him home, did you? You promised, Rudy!”
Laughing he threw his head back, gesturing towards the inside of the carriage. And, before Iris could stick her head inside, a large, plainly dressed woman shuffled herself outside. Carefully descending down the two steps. In her arms was the darling, little thing. Dressed smartly in a lace-trimmed onesie.
Iris squealed, her eyes darting between her brother and his wife for the unnecessary confirmation.
“Iris, this is your nephew, Wally.” Mary held out her arm as though encouraging Iris to go ahead and take him from the nanny.
Iris didn’t need any more encouragement.
The nanny eased the tiny boy into her awaiting arms, and to Iris’ pleasant surprise, baby Wally kicked, squealing in delight.
“My, he is already a little gentleman, isn’t he? And here I was worried he’d take after Rudy.”
Rudolph laughed. “We have Mrs. West to thank for that.”
“Truer words have rarely been spoken.” Mary leaned in to brush a quick kiss over the top of the baby’s head where brown curls had already emerged. Straightening, she said to Iris, “Have you seen much of my brother as of late?”
Barry Allen was Mary’s younger brother, and her father’s heir. He had been permanently residing at his Donwell estate—a short walk from the West’s Hartfield estate—since the late Mr. Allen’s demise some years ago. And over the years, being a neighbour as well as family through Rudolph and Mary’s marriage, he’d become Iris’ dearest friend.
“No, I’m sad to say that he hasn’t been around very much. I don’t know who misses him more when he’s gone, Father or I. But I have made him promise me that he will most certainly be at dinner this evening.”
Mary exchanged looks with Rudolph over her shoulder and turned back to Iris. “Has he said anything worthy of notice recently?”
Iris blinked. “He’s been a little distance, but otherwise… I can’t think of a single incident out of the usual.”
Mary seemed disappointed for whatever odd reason.
Iris was about to ask why when baby Wally squawked and spat up, staining Iris’s shoulder with his drool. Rudolph was quick to take out his handkerchief and clean the baby’s mouth, but it was no good for Iris’ poor dress. And while Iris didn’t mind it so much—she had many more dresses after all—these kinds of incidents would not be looked upon favourably by other members of their family. Those deathly afraid of infectious disease.
“We’ll have to keep him away from Father for now, at least until Wally charms him over…from a distance.” Her grin faded as she turned away from the squirming baby to look at his parents. “Father’s been grumbling about baby snivels and infections for days. He will require quite a bit of warming up.”
Rudolph rolled his eyes. “Yes, I expected as much.”
“That simply means we’ll have more time to sit with your Father on our own. And more time for you to get acquainted with baby Wally.” And, as cheerful as she always was, Mary nodded towards the main house. “We should probably hurry inside. I imagine he is as eager to see us as we are, him.”
And with that, they left baby Wally with Iris.
“I think I’ll take him for a quick stroll around the gardens, and bring him to the nursery myself. Will that be alright?” Iris said, smiling at the nanny.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Baby Wally certainly seemed to like that idea. Iris kissed his head gently as his mother had just done, murmuring, “I think we’re going to be fast friends, don’t you?” She took his toothless nibbling of her knuckle as agreement.
Later that evening, following dinner, Iris got another chance to bond with her nephew. She brought him down to the drawing room, where her brother and his wife sat with their father. The only other member of their dinner party stood by the fireplace, unusually contemplative.
“Anything you’d like to talk about it?” Iris said, standing at the other end of the fireplace, smiling. “Or would you rather greet your nephew, Mr. Wally West.”
Mr. Allen’s gaze swept up and down, taking in the image of her and the baby with a look that seemed suspiciously like longing. But that couldn’t be, could it? Mr. Allen couldn’t really long to have children. It didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem right to imagine him married. Was he really thinking about it? Was Mrs. Weston right about his affection for Felicity Smoak? Iris disliked the idea of him married to anyone, let alone Miss Smoak.
Ignoring her unpleasant wondering, Iris lowered her head to kiss baby Wally’s forehead and cheeks. “Quite the handsome gentleman, isn’t he?”
“He looks rather fetching in his aunt’s arms.”
Iris looked up, and the intensity of Barry’s gaze made her blush. “Will you sit with us?”
Barry inclined his head and led them to a sofa near the fire, a distant away from the rest of their family.
“Well then,” Iris said, settling the baby between them. “What’s your assessment of your heir, Mr. Allen?”
“My heir?” And when she didn’t answer, he dropped his head. “You presume I won’t have children of my own?”
The ill sensation in Iris’ stomach that had come to be when she first saw him looking at her and the baby longingly returned. It couldn’t be, could it? He couldn’t really be serious about marring Felicity. He couldn’t be. She was an ill match for him, so utterly ill—they were all well acquainted with her mother, after all.
But instead of expressing any of that, Iris forced a smile. “My, my, Mr. Allen. Shall I wish you joy?”
“Wish me joy?” He blinked at her. “Oh, you mean—”
“But I can’t. I—I simply can’t wish you joy until you’ve heard what I have to say regarding the matter.”
He blinked twice more, opened his mouth to say something, but in the end decided to gesture for her to simply continue.
Taking a deep breath in, Iris said, “I do think that as your friend it is my duty to provide you with sound advice, the nature of which might be unpleasant to your ears as charmed as you are by the object of your affections. But nevertheless, as your friend I will advise you that this is a most improper decision. Miss Smoak is lovely, to be sure. And she’s a darling, of course. But I am certain that her sweet, easily persuadable tempers will bore you in time. Perhaps it would be wise to contemplate this decision for some time before it’s—before you trap yourself and Miss Smoak in a most undesirable marriage.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but again, he didn’t seem to find the right words.
Iris’ face heated worse than before. “It brings me no pleasure to stand in the way of your joy, but I cannot help but worry for the future of your happiness. And what kind of friend would I be if I can’t speak truthfully to you?”
His eyebrow jumped at her mention of truthfulness, and he nodded absently.
But Iris wasn’t being entirely truthful. She’s omitted her concern about her own future happiness in regards to this matter. Because as selfless as Iris liked to believe herself, the thought of Mr. Allen married to another, forced to spend his evenings with his own family instead of at the West house was the part most painful to her.
“Furthermore, there is something I must tell you. I didn’t want mention it, but if you are serious about pursuing Miss Smoak, you should know that Mr. Queen seems to think that she is secretly beheld to another. That she may even be secretly engaged to this mystery man. I don’t want you to harbour hopes of something that could never—”
“I harbour no hopes. Not for Miss Smoak.”
At first, Iris wasn’t sure she had heard him right. But his smile, more amused than concerned, confirmed it. “You mean you’re not in love with—?”
“Not with Miss Smoak. In fact, I have no idea where you got the notion that I have any romantic feelings for her. As handsome as she is—and charming too, I suppose—her tempers are too accommodating as you said. I prefer less obliging spirits in my wife, perhaps someone stubborn to a reasonable measure. And quick witted, if not quite a lover of books.”
Iris laughed, so very relieved. “I couldn’t have thought of a worst match. I’m so utterly delighted that your heart is more reasonable than most men’s.”
His smile disappeared then.
Oh? What did that mean? Was he in love with another? A woman Iris had not suspected? But how could he be? Iris was certain she would know it. As she’d known Miss Smoak would not become the future Mrs. Allen. Whatever Mrs. Weston said.
Still avoiding her gaze, he eased the baby onto his lap. And if baby Wally had been pleased to be held by his aunt, he was ecstatic to be held by his uncle—giggling, spitting up, and flexing his little fingers to grab at every feature on Mr. Allen’s face.
For a moment, Iris forgot everything, including her plans to remain unmarried for all of her life.
For just that tiny moment, a secret moment she would share with no one, she imagined that the baby in Mr. Allen’s arms was hers—theirs. She imagined that this was an evening like any, with them and their son. And that she would sneak a chaste kiss from Mr. Allen, just as Mary did from Rudolph when she thought no one watched.
But Iris knew that she didn’t need a husband. Not as long as she had Mr. Allen as her dear friend. Not as long as he frequented the West manor and delighted her and her father’s evenings.
“What is that smile for? If I may ask?”
Iris ran a loving hand over baby Wally’s curls and met Mr. Allen’s eyes. “I was only thinking that he looks rather fetching in his uncle’s arms. Don’t you think?”
He returned her smile, the reflection of candlelight suddenly extra bright in his eyes.