Chapter 14 - Michael
“Come on, then,” Michael said irritably, waving his sister through the Preston front door.
“But we haven’t been invited,” Sylvia protested as she followed him in and looked around with wide eyes.
Michael couldn’t blame Sylvia for her awe of the entryway. He’d been impressed too, the first time he’d seen it. The statue of the Grecian lady was detailed and massive—and obviously cost a small fortune.
“I’m always welcome here. As my sister, you are too. Besides, Claire specifically invited me to breakfast.”
“Today? You were invited to this specific breakfast? Perhaps the ladies of the house are still recovering from the Perkinses ball; we should come back a different day.” Sylvia half turned toward the door as if she hoped he’d follow.
“The ball was two days ago. Stop stalling and give the maid your hat,” he said.
If he sounded a bit testy, Michael thought he could hardly be blamed for it.
It had been a very trying two days. He himself had been woken the morning after the Perkinses’ ball by an ear-splitting shriek that had him jack-knifing up in bed, laying hands on the first thing that could approximate a weapon (the antique saber hanging above his mantel) and charging out into the hall wearing nothing but his unmentionables and a dressing gown.
Thank goodness he’d paused to don the dressing gown, as the source of the uproar wasn’t violent in nature, but something far more banal and domestic.
Sylvia’s shoulders slumped as she untied her bonnet and handed it over to the waiting maid. It was a testament to the training of the staff that the young woman’s eyes didn’t so much as widen. She took the offered hat and cloak and bustled off to the adjoining cloak room to freshen both.
“Do we have to?” Sylvia whispered miserably.
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?
The sight of Claire’s mirth somehow shifted Michael from concern for his sister to a newfound appreciation for how ridiculous the entire situation truly was. He hadn’t been able to see it, not when he was at home, with his mother and sister alternately wailing and yelling at one another.
But here, in the Prestons’ breakfast room, Michael could truly comprehend how silly it was.
His sister had accidentally dyed her hair purple.
And not during summer, when they might have been able to hide such a mistake, but during the height of the Season, when she was expected to go out and attract suitors.
Michael shook his head, grinning, just as Sylvia began squeaking. She dropped the napkin, revealing a face grimaced with uncontrollable laughter instead of the tear-streaked visage he’d been expecting.
“Oh thank goodness,” Beatrice said, slumping into her chair. “I thought we’d have to act as if it wasn’t funny. I wasn’t sure I was up to the task.”
Sylvia laughed. Claire finally released her face and joined in along with Michael.
Lily shook her head and blinked at all of them. “I don’t see how you can be laughing at her, the poor dear.”
“We’re laughing with her, which is markedly different,” Margaret said.
“How on earth did this happen?” Beatrice asked, leaning forward. “Was it that new McGill’s lavender shampoo? I bought a bottle, but I’m not finished with my old shampoo yet.”
“Oh, good heavens,” Lily said, a hand splayed against her chest. “I use that shampoo.”
“Of course not,” Sylvia said, dabbing moisture from her eyes with her napkin. Michael was relieved to see she looked much better than she had before they’d arrived. “I meant to dye it; I just didn’t intend for it to turn purple.”
“Why on earth did you want to dye your hair?” Lily tilted her head.
“Easy for you to say, when you have a perfectly normal shade of hair.” Sylvia’s chin jutted.
Michael sighed—this was the start of the same argument he’d heard perhaps a thousand times since his mother’s shrieking had yanked him out of sleep two mornings ago.
“Red hair is a perfectly normal shade,” Beatrice said, her forehead wrinkled. “And yours wasn’t even as red as your brother’s. His is red-blond; yours was more of an auburn-blonde.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my hair,” Sylvia said, absently toying with the end of the purple curl framing her face.
Michael frowned and self-consciously reached up to touch the hair at the base of his neck. He met Claire’s eyes; they contained a knowing twinkle. He wrinkled his nose playfully at her and dropped his hand.
“A pity the compliment came too late,” Beatrice murmured.
“Beatrice,” Lily chided.
“No, it’s fine.” Sylvia waved her hand.
“I understand the sentiment,” Margaret said. “I’ve often wished for the same shade of hair as my sisters.”
“Yours is such a lovely blonde, though,” Sylvia said.
“I’m beginning to think that we ladies sometimes cannot see ourselves very accurately,” Margaret replied.
“Well, I suppose I deserve these results. If I’m being honest, I dyed my hair out of vanity. I wanted more attention, you see, from the gentlemen.”
Michael wrinkled his nose at the idea. Down the table, Claire laughed. He caught her mirthful eyes and narrowed his in mock censure.
“I daresay you’ll succeed at the attention part,” Beatrice said, smiling.
“Indeed. How will they ignore me now?”
“You cannot intend to go into public until it fades.” Lily’s eyes were wide. She looked around for a moment in the resulting silence and added, “Forgive me. I only meant—”
Sylvia smiled. “No, it’s fine. Truly it is. This has been a matter of much debate between my mother and me these past days.”
Michael caught Claire’s gaze again and widened his eyes dramatically to show that his sister’s words didn’t fully capture the scope of reality. She shook her head, smiling.
“Which of you believes you should continue on with purple hair?” Lily said, her head tilted.
“Surprisingly, my mother,” she said, slathering a thick coating of jam onto her toast. “Though I suspect it might be out of punishment for having dyed my hair in the first place.”
“What’s her reasoning?” Margaret asked.
“She says that we might as well be honest with the gentlemen about what kind of young lady they’d be marrying. She claims I’ll be happier in a marriage with a man who knows who I truly am than with someone I wasn’t fully truthful with.”
Down the table, Claire’s head was tilted in a thoughtful kind of way. Michael pressed his lips together to keep from smiling and turned his gaze back to his sister.
“But you don’t wish to go out in public?” Beatrice said.
“It’s embarrassing.” Sylvia stabbed a roasted potato with her fork. “Not only the purple hair but the reasoning behind it.”
“You needn’t be embarrassed,” Beatrice said evenly. “The only reason any of us attend all those balls and cotillions is because we wish to marry well. Any single young lady who doesn’t wish to find a gentleman doesn’t attend.”
“I suppose so.”
“After thinking about it, I agree with your mother, I think,” Lily said. “If a gentleman isn’t meant to be yours, there’s nothing you’d be able to do to ensnare him.”
“And if he’s truly interested, believe me, there’s nothing you could do to get rid of him,” Margaret groused, jabbing at the scrambled eggs on her plate.
Michael’s eyebrow flung upwards. It sounded as if Margaret was speaking from personal experience. Down the table, Claire wore the same suspicion on her face.
“We will accompany you whenever you want, of course,” Beatrice said, stoutly. “Won’t we?”
“Indeed,” Claire said. “You needn’t be alone ever, if you don’t wish it.”
“Why would you offer such support?” Sylvia asked, her forehead creasing.
“Because we’re old friends, aren’t we?” Margaret said.
“Besides, we know what it’s like to be whispered about, and such a thing is best faced with superior numbers,” Beatrice said.
Lily winked. “If four Preston ladies aren’t enough, don’t worry—next year, there will be eight of us.”