Page 12 of The Trouble with Tweed

“I hardly think a bit of new silk is going to fool any gentleman worth having,” Margaret mumbled.

Claire frowned and opened her mouth to respond, but Beatrice asked, “Where were you this afternoon, anyway?”

“Shopping,” Claire said.

“For what?”

“An accessory to help me snare a husband.” That was as close to the truth as Claire dared to venture. If Beatrice caught wind of Claire’s plans, she’d be relentless.

“I hardly think a new hat will make the difference,” Margaret said, selecting a jam biscuit from the tea tray. “Oh, I wish it would just start already! I detest all this waiting about.”

“I hate to disappoint, but there is more waiting during a Season than before it.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You wait for gentlemen to notice you. You wait for them to ask you to dance. Then you wait at home, hoping they’ll call, or hoping they won’t, depending.”

Margaret blinked and chewed her biscuit.

“Don’t make it sound so dreadful,” Beatrice chided. “Your first Season’s experience was doubtless different than ours will be. Richard wasn’t nearly as involved with your prospects as William is. As far as brothers go, you can’t fault William for his devotion. He even went so far as to convince Miss Warrington to design gowns for us.”

William was a little too attentive, in Claire’s opinion—it had been difficult to slip from the house this afternoon without him knowing. Granted, Miss Warrington was proving to be a wonderful distraction—at least the lady had some use besides her sketching skills.

“What are you frowning about?” Beatrice asked.

“Nothing.”

“It isn’t nothing. You make that same expression every time someone brings Miss Warrington up. And you’ve been awfully rude to her, besides. Why don’t you like her?”

A flash of a moonlit garden entered Claire’s mind before she reflexively shunted it away. That was the night of Claire’s great disillusionment, and she’d spent more time ruminating on that single evening than she had on any other period of time in her life—including that detestable broom closet she desperately tried not to remember.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Claire rose serenely from the sofa. “Excuse me, I have much to do.”

Such as bracing herself before she had tea with Michael and his family tomorrow.

CHAPTER 4- CLAIRE

Claire’s memory of Lady Rutheridge was of a intelligent woman with kind eyes. A smile was ever present on her lips; her laughter was easily provoked. Claire wondered how diminished the lady would be now that her husband had passed. Though she would hardly admit it, Claire was nervous—both to see Lady Rutheridge and Sylvia after such an absence, and to see Michael after their strange interlude the day before.

Claire arrived promptly at two o’clock to find the ladies chattering with Michael in the parlor. Lady Rutheridge and Sylvia both stood as Claire entered, but it was Michael’s eyes that caught hers first.

Despite Claire’s trepidation, Michael appeared wholly unaffected by what had transpired between them yesterday. It only convinced her more that his display the day before had been nothing but a jest—some embarrassing price Claire was forced to pay for his cooperation in her scheme. He smiled at her easily—a casual grin that contained just a hint of mischief. This afternoon, he somehow looked even more handsome. He wore a dark brown suit that complemented his reddish-blond hair—hair that appeared freshly trimmed.

“You look so much like your mother,” Lady Rutheridge said, interrupting Claire’s thoughts. “How I miss her. What a delight it is to see you wearing so many of her features.” It was as if the last four years of separation were but a memory—Lady Rutheridge embraced Claire, kissed both her cheeks, and smiled.

“It’s wonderful to see you as well,” Claire said.

Lady Rutheridge looked much the same as Claire remembered. In their time apart, she’d gained a few additional grey hairs that blended well with her blonde hair, and the laugh lines around her mouth and eyes had deepened. She was half a head shorter than Claire and pleasantly plump, with large brown eyes that still sparkled with mirth.

Lady Rutheridge continued, “Back before your mother and I married, we were the best of friends. But then I met Michael’s father, and we moved to the countryside. I suppose it’s true what they say—proximity is important to a relationship.” Here the lady arched her eyebrow at her son, and he nodded.

Claire barely noticed—she was smiling at Sylvia. “You’ve grown.”

Claire immediately flushed at the stupidity of her statement. Of course the girl had grown. She’d last known her as a gangly youth of fourteen, and now Sylvia was eighteen. It was a pivotal time in a young lady’s life. Judging by Sylvia’s beauty and kind smile, she’d certainly made the most of it.

“And you look the same as you always have. What I wouldn’t give to have your perfect skin.” Sylvia laughed and pressed her fingertips to Claire’s cheek.

Claire blinked, taken aback by the intimacy of the gesture. Then again, they’d been family friends for years—she could hardly expect Sylvia to act as if they’d only met, even though to Claire it felt like the past were a different lifetime.