Chapter 12 - Claire #2
“Thank you, Michael. They’re beautiful.” Claire buried her nose into the perfumed ruffles. “I hope you know I don’t expect you to bring me flowers as part of our pretense.”
“The flowers are separate from our scheme,” he said easily, selecting another biscuit and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “They’re on account of our friendship.”
Claire smiled. As she handed the roses off to Mara to be put in water, she couldn’t help but admire Michael from the corner of her eye.
It wasn’t just that he was handsome—though he was.
It was his innate confidence that she admired.
He was as at ease here as he was at his home, as he would be in the park or in a ballroom.
Though he was still the Michael she knew from her youth, in many ways, that Michael had been a boy. This Michael was fully grown—comfortable with himself in a way that a man could only be when he’d come to a reckoning with himself and the world.
Claire saw an echo of the same maturity in herself.
Though she’d still been nervous about this Season, it wasn’t for the silly reasons she’d been apprehensive about four years ago.
She wasn’t worried about her hairstyle or her clothes, or that she’d end up marrying someone dull or ugly.
Now she worried about rumors of her sisters—Lily, specifically—and whether any of them would secure good matches.
“What bothers you?” Michael asked.
“Nothing.”
“You were frowning just now.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Very well, it wasn’t a full frown. But there’s this little crease that appears at the side of your mouth that conveys the same emotion.”
Claire’s fingers pressed to the corner of her mouth before she could stop them. Michael laughed as she glared at him accusingly.
“No one else would have noticed,” he said consolingly. “It’s only because I know you so well.”
Michael said the words so easily, so flippantly, but they struck some deep chord within her. Had anyone known Claire as well as he did? And their comfortable familiarity would only last until she was wed. For surely no husband would encourage his wife to have a close male friend.
The thought brought a sudden cascade of melancholy in its wake. Claire’s fingertips were still pressed to the corner of her mouth, so she felt it when the little line reappeared.
“May I ask why you’ve chosen to inhabit this small rear parlor, rather than the grand front one?” Michael asked. He’d idly picked up a brass figurine—a duck—resting on the side table and turned it round in his hands.
“It’s bedlam up there. Their merriment has already frightened one of my beaux away.”
He grinned. “Did it really?”
She sipped her tea and nodded.
“Who?”
“Lord Kerring. We were sitting on the sofa nearest to Lily, which was admittedly shortsighted of me, given how many callers she has. One of them accidentally jostled the sofa, and Lord Kerring stood up and ran for the door without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“He didn’t.” Despite his words, Michael looked positively gleeful.
“He did. And what’s more, he was so frightened that he didn’t even put his teacup down before he fled. He took it with him!”
Michael tipped his head back and laughed uproariously. Despite her very real irritation and disgust at the whole thing, Claire’s lips quirked upward into a smile.
“Our housekeeper was quite put out, and William threatened to hunt him down. It was part of one of the silver services, you see. But the following morning, our butler found the teacup sitting on the front stoop, delivered without so much as a knock.”
“Ah,” Michael said, wiping his eyes, when he’d finally recovered from his second bout of laughter enough to speak. “You couldn’t make this up—no one would believe it.”
Claire shook her head. “Now whenever I call for tea, I always receive a china service—as if it’s I who cannot be trusted with the silver.
I hardly know what I was supposed to do in that instance.
Did the housekeeper expect me to tackle him round the knees?
I was so shocked I couldn’t have uttered a word of protest.”
“I can only imagine.”
“If you need an accurate retelling, speak to Beatrice. She’s done nothing but mock me for it over breakfast ever since. She insists my eyes were so wide you could see a ring of white all the way around.”
“What a clever way of inviting me to breakfast. Thank you, Claire. I accept.”
She sighed and shook her head. “It has been an interesting Season, to be sure. I never knew that such boring gentlemen could find such fascinating ways of being utterly repellant. Aren’t there any interesting Tweeds?”
Claire winced. Now Michael had her calling them by the ridiculous nickname.
“Unfortunately, no. The phrase ‘interesting Tweed’ is by definition an oxymoron.”
As opposed to Lord Dunfrey, who was just a plain moron, she thought.
“Enough of my worries,” she said, flapping her hand. “How does Sylvia fare this Season?”
“She and Mother are at odds at the moment.”
“Oh dear.” Claire waited a moment, then gently asked, “Any specific reason?”
It was a delicate thing, inquiring about private topics. On one hand, one didn’t want to not ask and therefore seem cold and indifferent. On the other, one didn’t want to be a prying, meddlesome sort of person.
“Anything and everything,” Michael said. “The other day I heard them squabbling about hairpins of all things.”
“That doesn’t sound like an argument that’s impossible to recover from, relationally speaking.”
“If it were only the hairpins, of course I wouldn’t mention it, but it’s everything. Which outings to go to, what gown Sylvia should wear, what blasted hairstyle she should choose.”
They sat for several moments in silence. Michael stared at the shelf on the far wall, his forehead wrinkled.
He finally said, “I think the pressure of the Season is getting to both of them. Mother has already successfully married off my two elder sisters, and each in their first Season. I think she’s concerned she’ll fail with the last one.”
“Surely it isn’t a failure if Sylvia doesn’t marry. Surely that’s too strong of a word.”
He turned to her and arched a brow. “This coming from a young lady who is determined to marry this Season. Won’t you feel it’s a failure if you aren’t engaged by the end?”
“My case is far different than Sylvia’s. You should perhaps remind your mother that Sylvia is young, that she can take two or three Seasons to find her match.”
“I don’t think that either of them believe that. Not really. My mother wants to see Sylvia as well married as our sisters are, and Sylvia wishes to be out from beneath Mother’s watchful eye as soon as possible.”
“Does she have any beaux?”
“She’s remarkably tight-lipped about her prospects, and as I’m so often in attendance here, I haven’t kept as close an eye on her progress as I would have liked.”
A wave of guilt crashed upon her; Claire frowned. “If you need to spend more time attending to your own household, I certainly understand.”
“Not at all. My mother watches her like a hawk. Not to mention our fearsome housekeeper and the footmen who my mother hired for their size and squashed pugilist noses. I almost pity the person who tries anything past innocence within the four wall of that house.” He tossed the brass duck in the air and caught it, then repositioned it on the side table.
“It is interesting that you’ve never taken different lodgings.”
“Is it?” Michael scanned the remaining biscuit offerings on the tea tray and selected one with an orange glaze. “I never saw the need.”
“It’s only that most gentlemen of your approximate age and fortune find it confining to live at home with their mothers.”
“Most of your Tweeds live at home with their mothers,” he pointed out.
She waved a hand in dismissal. “They aren’t at all fashionable or interesting. You’re in a different class altogether.”
Claire felt the sudden need to blush at the admission, but Michael munched at his biscuit as if deep in thought. If he’d noticed her compliment, he was willing to let it pass without remark.
“I suppose it would be different if my mother still treated me as a child. However, she’s treated me as an adult ever since I returned from school.
And perhaps if I didn’t like my family, I might have been more inclined to find alternate lodgings.
The truth is I enjoy them. I like a full household.
My mother’s right—I would find it dreadfully lonely to come home and have no one but the servants there. ”
“What about your other pursuits?” she blurted before she could stop herself.
Her cheeks grew hot. It was an unspoken agreement between them that she’d just broken, not to ask about the other ladies in his life.
He shrugged and pushed the brass duck more accurately back into place with his forefinger. “I’m teaching Lord Austin how to fence, and sometimes I’ll breakfast at the Black Raven. Other than that, I’m mainly at my ledgers or with you as of late.”
Claire frowned even though his answer pleased her. What had she expected, that he’d be honest with her about his exploits with the feminine set? And there were exploits—she knew there were.
She shook the thought from her head and unthinkingly asked, “And what of when you marry? What if your wife doesn’t want to share her home with your mother and sister?”
Claire was surprised by the sudden sharp twist in her stomach. The previous two questions were self-flaggelation, though she was careful not to let the truth of it show.
He frowned as if considering. “I suppose I shall have to choose wisely when I marry. I think that my mother is gracious enough to concede the running of the household to my wife when the time comes. If my sister marries a gentleman of quality—which she should—I suppose my mother might split her time between her four children. Or perhaps she will make her home at one of the country residences.”
Claire swallowed back the sourness in her throat and gave a wan smile. “Your wife could hardly do better for a mother-by-law.”
Michael hummed, his eye on the biscuits once more.
“Heaven’s sake, Michael,” she said. “Didn’t you have luncheon?”
“What an interesting way of inviting me to lunch, Claire. It’s a bit late for it today, but I shall come by promptly tomorrow.”
Claire shook her head, her cheeks warming at his affectionate impudence. “You’re insufferable.”
“Now that you’ve brought up the maternal set, I must mention that it’s fascinating how often Tweeds talk about their mothers.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Truly. One wonders if the gentleman would have become Tweeds at all without the mothers they have?”
“This is why I adore you, Claire. I came for tea and biscuits and now I’m being treated to deep philosophical questions. Which came first: the overbearing mother or the Tweed?”