Chapter 12 - Claire
Over the following week, Michael was true to his word, introducing Claire to several gentlemen who fit her parameters exactly.
With the proper encouragement and so many gently coaxing smiles that Claire’s cheeks began to hurt by the end of every interaction, some of the men were enticed to call upon her.
It had been the most challenging, unforeseen part of her plan—helping Tweeds gain the courage to darken her doorstep.
Claire learned swiftly that it was best to conduct such visitations out of doors whenever possible, as the Preston household had descended into some sort of courtship free-for-all.
Her sisters had proved exceptionally popular, and the sheer volume in the front parlor was enough to set some of Claire’s callers on edge.
It wasn’t just the crowded conditions that convinced Claire of the need to keep her Tweeds away from her sisters.
There was also the added benefit of avoiding their unwanted commentary afterward.
One day, Claire shared an exceedingly boring walk through the park, Mara close on her heels, with a Lord Dunfrey. Lord Dunfrey was perhaps her brother William’s age. Judging by the reports she had heard and by the fine cut of his coat, his estate was more than adequate.
The problem was with Lord Dunfrey himself.
Although kind, there was not much cabbage in the cabbage bin, as William would have said.
As they walked, he kept up a mostly one-sided, inane conversation about the weather and about his prized horses, which he loved more than any human alive, by Claire’s estimation.
As he rambled, Claire did her best to imagine a life at his side. Though she didn’t expect to love her husband, she’d thought that there might be a modicum of mutual respect, at least.
But when Lord Dunfrey pointed up at a tree and said, “Look at those tiny tomatoes,” all hope for a future together flew out the window.
“Tomatoes?” she repeated, frowning.
“I never knew they grew on trees, you see.”
Claire followed his gaze to the red berries in the nearby holly tree and realized then and there she could never be Lord Dunfrey’s wife.
“I’m very sorry to cut this short,” she said. If he had more intelligence, he would have heard the lie in the statement. “But I’m afraid I’m feeling unwell and need to retire.”
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and strode back toward home.
Two days after that, she shared a mortifying public tea with a Lord Way. At first glance, he was handsome enough, though a little portly around the midsection, which was to be forgiven due to the robust size of his accounts, according to Michael.
All was well until a waiter placed a tiered serving tray of tea cakes, scones, and sandwiches between them. Lord Way reached forward and, mid-sentence, shoved an entire watercress sandwich into his cheek, bit down, and continued speaking.
At once, the table became a battleground.
Flecks of spittle flew like little mortars from his mouth and crumbs rolled down the front of his waistcoat like an avalanche.
In that instant, Claire envisioned a lifetime of meals spread before her.
Unless the Way estate table was exceedingly wide, she did not like the future she saw for herself.
With teeth-gritting restraint, she made it through the rest of the afternoon, but stomped up the staircase to her rooms and scratched him off the list immediately.
The following day, Claire poured tea for Lord Vickers in the back parlor. It was much quieter than the massive front parlor, and Claire wouldn’t risk another being scared off by the mob of suitors, like Lord Kerring had been. Mara acted as chaperone, standing at attention beneath an oil landscape.
“My mother is very fond of small porcelain figurines,” Lord Vickers said. “Do you collect anything, Claire?”
Lord Vickers was younger than the others had been, but his mannerisms were far older than his years. His brown hair was nearly insufficient to cover his white pate, but not for lack of careful combing.
“No,” she said. “Not unless you can count dresses as a collection.”
Lord Vickers paused to consider this notion. “No, I don’t believe you can,” he said. “A collection, I believe, is a gathering of objects, chiefly for one’s own amusement, not for functionality. It’s something one can keep on a shelf, or on a dresser, or a mantelpiece, or in a display cabinet, or—”
“Thank you for clearing that up.” She bared her teeth into the semblance of a smile. “Such things are so confusing for me.”
“I am happy to help,” he finally said, after he blinked in a slow, yet alarmed way. “I am a naturally helpful fellow. Mother always comments upon it.”
“How wonderful that you’ve had such a supportive upbringing.” Claire made herself smile once more. “If only everyone were as lucky.”
“Indeed. Do you wish for children, Miss Preston?”
Ah, finally, a question about Claire herself.
“For I do,” he continued just as she opened her mouth to reply. “I should prefer boys.” He said this in a slow, pedantic tone, as if Claire should be sure to mark his preferences down.
“That’s the thing with children,” she said, her smile strained. “One doesn’t get to choose.”
“Mother said she prayed for a son every night, and then she received me.”
What a disappointment that must have been, Claire thought.
He continued, “Mother says that if a woman truly wishes it, she can have a son.”
Claire had never heard such a bit of balderdash in all of her life, but thought it was probably best she didn’t say so. After hearing Lord Vickers wax eloquent for the majority of the past hour as to how wonderful his mother was, Claire thought it best to leave the matter at rest.
“More tea, Lord Vickers?” she offered.
“No.” He gave a grave frown. “If I have more than two cups a day, I’m plagued with wakefulness at night. It’s very interesting. It took me a long time to find the source of the malady, you see. But then Mother suggested—”
Claire clenched her teeth beneath smiling lips and mentally scratched Lord Vickers from her list. If she could barely stand to hear of the man’s mother upon their first real conversation, she doubted things would improve much over the next thirty years.
“I love tea,” she said stoutly, interrupting him for the first time. “In fact, I cannot imagine my life without it.”
“Oh.” Lord Vickers rocked backward in his chair, his eyes wide as if Claire had just announced that on the weekends she loved to dance on tabletops in the local tavern.
“And furthermore, I should like it if my first child were a girl,” she said stoutly.
A sound halfway between a cough and a laugh sounded from the open archway. Claire glanced up and, with no small amount of relief, saw Michael standing in the doorway. He looked exceptionally handsome in a dark navy suit, holding a bouquet of ruffled white hothouse roses.
She waved him over a bit desperately. “Michael, come settle a debate between us. What would you prefer your first child to be, a boy or a girl?”
Michael smiled warmly and crossed the room. “I don’t think I’d care one way or the other,” he said, “as long as she had the right mother.”
Claire beamed at him. “What a wonderful sentiment. Such a forward-thinking idea.”
“Forward-thinking,” Lord Vickers repeated, his eyes even wider. “Yes, quite forward-thinking,” he mumbled to himself once more. “Miss Preston, I fear that business requires me to depart.”
“Oh, how disappointing.” Claire tilted her head. “I was just about to answer the multitude of questions you asked me throughout our conversation.”
“Oh.” Lord Vickers frowned. “Well, perhaps next time.”
“Indeed.”
He stood, sketched a bow in her direction, and fled the room.
“I see that went well,” Michael murmured.
Claire sagged against the back of the sofa and shook her head. “The man is convinced that his future wife can produce a male heir simply through force of will, all because his mother says so.”
“An interesting notion.”
“Oh, it’s not a notion, not to him. If his mother says it, it’s law.” Claire selected a biscuit from the tea service and bit into it savagely.
Michael chuckled. “That’s the wonderful thing about our courtship. You already know my mother and know that she’d be thrilled with any child of ours at all—not just the sons.”
Claire ignored the swoop she felt in her stomach when she thought of Michael as a father, when she thought of Lady Rutheridge as a grandmother. A shard of jealousy shot through her midsection when she imagined Michael’s wife—how lucky she would be someday.
“Does your mother continue to pester you to take a bride?” Claire asked.
Michael shrugged. “Of course. You heard her the other day. Though it’s hard to imagine, she’s actually much more direct when we’re alone.”
“And what’s your reply?” Claire asked, trying to keep the curiosity from her voice.
“I tell her the truth, that I grow closer to matrimonial bliss every day.”
Claire laughed.
Michael affected outrage even as he pored over the biscuits and selected one with jam pressed in the middle. “You don’t believe me?”
“I shall believe it when I see it, and not a moment prior.”
“Now you sound like my dear sister.”
“She’s incomparably wise, then,” she said tartly.
He chuckled, the sound low and rich and soothing. She couldn’t help but smile in return.
“I hope you know,” Claire said, upon a burst of sincerity, “that I’m very glad we have renewed our friendship.”
“I am, too.” He cleared his throat. “I missed you, Claire. I’m very glad we’re on speaking terms again.”
“Quite a bit more than speaking terms,” she chided. “We’re in each other’s confidence.”
His expression was earnest when he said, “Indeed. You are my closest friend.”
The idea of it warmed Claire’s heart. It had been so long since she felt she had any true friends at all, and Michael was very special to her.
“Here,” he said, offering her the blooms. “These are for you, of course.”