Page 55 of The Trouble with Tweed

So thank you, Claire. And we need never speak of this small issue between us again, unless you’d care to. You are most heartily forgiven, though I don’t know that any forgiveness at all was required. It’s entirely understandable that you felt the way you did. Please forgive me for not seeing it from your point of view earlier.

-William

P.S. What’s this about your beau pilfering the silver? Do I need to hire additional footmen to keep the riffraff out?

Claire had laughed through the mist in her eyes at his postscript as warmth suffused her heart. Was apologizing truly that easy?

The first letter had been so well received that Claire immediately gained the courage to draft the second. She sent it off with a lightness in her heart and a conviction that everything between her and her siblings would be nicely concluded—just a small divot in the frosting of familial felicity, easily smoothed over.

She had just settled onto the sofa facing the fire with a book when— Wham. Her bedroom door burst open so hard it smacked against the polished paneling. Claire jerked, eyes wide.

Beatrice strode toward her, waving the aforementioned letter. Her forehead was wrinkled, her mouth twisted into a grimace. “What is this drivel?”

“For goodness’ sake, Beatrice. You didn’t even knock.”

Beatrice glowered at her, stalked back over to the open door, and pounded upon it three times before slamming it shut behind her. “What is this?”

“A letter.” Claire was too stunned by the sheer volume of Beatrice’s entry to come up with a better answer.

“Of course it’s a letter, you ninny!” Beatrice snarled. “Goodness, you really do think I’m an idiot!”

“Why on earth are you yelling at me?”

Claire had thought it was a good letter, a sensible one. She’d even apologized in it, quite sincerely.

“I’m angry at you, Claire!” Beatrice rounded the sofa and stood before her. “You treated me like an idiot. Not to mention you lied to me for months. You’re lying to me still.”

Claire’s mouth dropped open. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Oh, Richard’s so busy. Richard’s doing his best.” Beatrice affected an idiotic voice while opening and closing her hand like it was talking in time with her words. “I’m sure he’d be here if he could. What rubbish.”

She frowned. “I said those things for the sake of our younger sisters⁠—”

“Precisely,” Beatrice hissed, leaning over and jabbing her finger sharply into Claire’s shoulder.

“Ouch.” Claire rubbed at the spot and scowled.

“I’m not one of our younger sisters. I could have been trusted with the truth.”

“As the eldest—” Claire began.

“Does your conceit know no bounds?” Beatrice looked heavenward, flailing her fingers. “Oh, if I don’t take care of things, nothing will get done. And all my sisters are too stupid to help. Is that it?”

“Was that supposed to be me?” Claire drew her chin back, aghast. She didn’t sound like that—did she?

“And furthermore,” Beatrice said, ignoring the question, “you expected me to believe that Lily went off to stay with Great Aunt Lucinda? And when we received a letter halfway through Lily’s absence that Great Aunt Lucinda had died, you expected me to believe that Lily was packing up her house for the next three months like a common laborer? As if that old bat didn’t have maids.”

Claire didn’t have a good answer for that, so she pressed her lips together.

“Well?” Beatrice slapped the letter against her skirts, her eyebrows raised. She was breathing hard, as if venting her anger had been a great exertion.

“Well what?”

Claire frankly didn’t know which one of Beatrice’s accusations to deal with first. Her mind was ringing with them—it hardly helped that her sister had delivered them all one after another, at volume.

Beatrice huffed, her eyes wide. “Are you finally going to tell me the truth of where she actually was?”

“It’s not my secret to tell. You should ask Lily.” On that point, Claire wouldn’t budge. That rather shocking saga was Lily’s, and Lily’s alone. Claire had given her word—both to Lily and William—that she’d never repeat the particulars again.