Page 46 of The Trouble with Tweed

Perhaps Michael would have had more compassion on her, had he not spent the previous forty-eight hours listening to her and his mother go the rounds on the subject.

He nodded and gestured for her to follow the stoic butler, who was already leading the way to the breakfast room. “After you.”

There was hardly a pause in the conversation when the butler announced them. Michael hadn’t been lying when he told Sylvia that he was always welcome. In fact, ever since Claire had unintentionally invited him to breakfast, he’d made several such appearances.

“You know very well that was my favorite brooch,” Margaret was saying.

“I knew no such thing,” Beatrice answered. “How could I, when it was buried so deep in your tray that I had to go digging for it? It’s not my fault the clasp was faulty. Besides, it was only paste—I’ll buy you a new one.”

“I’ll buy you a real one if we can stop this conversation now,” William muttered from the head of the table, so lowly Michael was uncertain whether anyone else heard him.

William was sitting closest to the door, his back to the entrance, a newspaper open as some sort of shield between himself and his sisters. As a man who’d recently sat through two days of female bickering, Michael experienced a moment of deep sympathy for him.

There was a sharp gasp from the other side of the table as one of the Preston ladies finally looked up. A stunned sort of silence descended. Sylvia made to step backward toward the door; Michael blocked it with his body as if she were a frightened dog getting ready to bolt.

Claire was the first one to recover enough to speak. She waved toward the two empty place settings the footmen were hurriedly assembling. “Well, go on then. Sit down and join us.”

They did as instructed, Michael pulling out Sylvia’s chair just in time for her to slump into it. Michael sat next to her, his expression grim. William flicked his newspaper down long enough to take a momentary appraisal, then snapped it back upwards without a flicker of expression. The Preston ladies didn’t share their brother’s discretion. Except for Claire, all of them stared with wide eyes.

“It’s…it’s purple,” Margaret blurted, then slapped a hand over her mouth as if the interjection had been quite accidental.

“Do try the bacon, Sylvia,” Claire said kindly. “It’s especially good this morning.”

Sylvia nodded at the footman, who added some to her plate and moved on to Michael. Once the guests had been served, Claire dismissed the footmen. Michael thought he’d never loved her more than he did in that moment.

Despite his outward determination, he’d been second-guessing his decision to bring Sylvia here even before they’d arrived. But the truth was that both Sylvia and his mother needed a break from the issue.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Claire asked gently.

“I certainly do,” Beatrice said, still blinking at Sylvia in a dazed kind of way.

“Of course she wasn’t asking you,” Lily chided. “Have some compassion.”

Sylvia covered her face with her napkin; her shoulders began to shake.

“Look what you’ve done,” Lily said with a wince. “Now she’s crying.”

“Thank you for that unnecessary narration,” Margaret hissed. “We can all see that she’s crying.”

“Well, don’t blame me.” Lily frowned as if affronted. “I’m not the one who made her cry.”

William frowned and lowered his newspaper once more. He turned to Michael. “What kind of gemstone does your sister prefer?”

“What?” Michael shook his head, only half paying attention to the strange question. He fruitlessly patted Sylvia’s shoulder and extended his napkin to her—a stupid gesture, as she already had a napkin and couldn’t see the offer because her face was covered.

“I think perhaps amethysts would suit her well,” Cavendish said with a frown before scooting back from the table.

“Because they’re purple?” Margaret nearly shrieked at William as he retreated through the far door.

Sylvia’s shoulders only shook harder.

“Oh dear,” Lily said to her. “It’s not that bad, truly.”

“You needn’t lie to her,” Beatrice stage-whispered. “I’m sure she owns a mirror.”

“Would you hush? She can hear you,” Lily hissed back.

In the midst of the conversational uproar, Michael raised his head to look at Claire. She was always composed and in control—surely she would know what to do. But when his eyes met hers, he found her thin hand clasped over her mouth, pinching her nose. Her eyes were wide and… Was she laughing?