Chapter 15 - Claire
The following weeks took on a comfortable cadence.
Claire attended the various balls and dinner parties that marked the Season, often in the company of Michael and her sisters and the lavender-haired Sylvia.
While there had been an initial furor of whispers and poorly-concealed laughter when Sylvia first debuted her new coiffure, society had resumed largely ignoring her altogether.
Claire did her best to avoid the increasing volume of the front parlor. She didn’t miss being part of the social crush; however, there was one marked downside to her absence. Though all of her sisters had at least one regular caller, they were remarkably taciturn when the subject was brought up.
One morning, over breakfast, Claire was determined to broach the topic again.
She took her seat at the table and asked, “Where’s William?”
“Heaven knows.” Margaret’s jaw dropped in a yawn that she barely tried to cover.
She was dressed only in a pink, quilted velvet morning robe belted tightly around her waist with a silk-satin tie.
Her proliferation of blonde hair was unusually rowdy that morning—it was a soft bramble of curls and waves barely held in check by a straining barrette.
Claire thought Margaret might have slept in the bauble, by the looks of the mess.
“Where on earth are you going so early, Claire?” Beatrice asked. Or accused, if her tone was anything to go by.
“It isn’t early at all, even though you both are still in your nightclothes.” Claire nodded at her empty cup, and like magic, a footman appeared to fill it with strong, scalding brew. “It’s very nearly noon.”
“I’ll have you know that these are morning robes. For the morning, which it still is,” Beatrice added, in a tone that insinuated that Claire might be an imbecile. “They’re all the fashion in Paris. Dahlia says so.”
“Well, as long as Dahlia says you may attend breakfast looking like some half-awake opera singer, that’s all well and good, then. Lily took the time to get dressed, at least.”
Lily gave a smile that looked more like a wince as she sipped her tea and remained silent.
At second glance, she looked less awake than her sisters, though she was wearing a fine muslin day dress that lent an ethereal air to her beautiful features.
Claire frowned and inspected Lily more closely. Did she look a bit pale?
Margaret reached for the syrup and doused her waffles. “You didn’t answer the question, Claire.” She turned to Beatrice. “Have you noticed how often she does that—turns the conversation on its ear so that she doesn’t have to answer?”
“You’re right.” Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “She does do that.”
Claire shook her head. “I wasn’t trying to avoid anything. What was the question?”
“Where are you going, dressed like that?”
Claire glanced down at herself. By her sister’s tone, she expected to see something out of place—something scandalous. However, her navy day dress was as pristine and modest as when she’d last checked herself in the mirror.
Claire quite liked the ensemble. It had clever darts in the bodice and tucks at the waist that made her thin figure appear more feminine. Though Claire could never hope to compete with Margaret’s lush curves or even Lily’s soft figure, she appreciated the workmanship all the same.
“Dressed like what?” Claire asked.
“You’re doing it again.” Margaret stabbed a loaded fork in her direction. Syrup flecked the white tablecloth; Claire swore she heard a footman sigh from his position flanking the sideboard behind her. “Where are you going?”
“I’m meeting Michael for a drive in the park.”
“You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
“Riding in the park?”
“Meeting Michael,” Beatrice said, raising her eyebrows meaningfully.
“He and I are friends.”
“So you’ve forgiven him for his scandalous tryst in Paris?” Beatrice slathered jam on her toast while watching Claire closely.
“What on earth are you talking about? What scandalous tryst?” Claire’s forehead creased in confusion.
“Nevermind. A poor joke,” Beatrice said archly.
“There goes that theory,” Margaret muttered.
“Pardon?” Claire snapped.
“It’s only that we’re all dying to know why you cut him off all those years ago. You were courting, and then you weren’t,” Lily said gently.
“How about you and I make a deal?” Claire arched her eyebrow. “If you’ll be honest about your beaux, I’ll do the same.”
“So you’re admitting he’s a beau?” Margaret asked archly.
“I have nothing to hide,” Beatrice said.
“Ah, but the wager isn’t with you. It’s with our two sisters.” Claire turned to each of them in turn and found both Lily and Margaret suddenly fascinated by the contents of their plate and teacup, respectively.
Beatrice frowned at the lot of them. “Go on then, Claire. State the rules.”
Claire gave a saccharine smile. “If they’ll each answer one question honestly, so will I. It’s as simple as that. But they must go first.”
Beatrice sat up straight and grinned. “That’s it? And you’ll truly tell us why you stopped talking to Michael for four years?”
Beatrice appeared delighted, as if all her dreams had come true at once. But Claire was studying Lily, who looked even paler, which she wouldn’t have thought possible, and Margaret, who now appeared as if she’d entered into a secret waffle-eating contest.
Claire gave a triumphant smile, and Beatrice finally turned to assess the cause.
“Oh come now,” Beatrice chided. “It’s just one question. You haven’t even heard what it is yet.”
“Fine.” Lily took a deep breath. “You may ask your question. Right, Margaret?”
Margaret shook her head, wide-eyed, her mouth still full of waffles.
“Beatrice is right,” Lily cajoled. “We might as well hear what the question is before we say we won’t answer.”
“You must tell us both questions up front,” Margaret mumbled, her mouth still full.
Claire wrinkled her nose. “Very well. My question for Lily is regarding one Lord Hayes. Specifically, how well she knew him before the Season started.”
Lily’s eyes went round; her teacup stopped on its journey to her mouth, which was agape.
“Lily?” Beatrice asked, frowning.
Claire turned to Margaret with a feline smile. “And my question for Margaret is regarding the Duke of Ettrick.”
“No,” Margaret snapped. “Absolutely not.”
“Come now, Margaret,” Beatrice chided. “You won’t even hear the question?”
“Certainly not. I won’t be answering any questions about him.”
“Ah, what a pity,” Claire said, serenely sipping from her teacup. “Though I thank you for this exercise. I found it most enlightening. The simple fact that you won’t answer my inquiries is quite enough information for me to go on for the time being.”
Their breakfast didn’t last long after that. There was a strained kind of silence until Lily pushed back from the table and fled through the open archway.
Claire narrowed her eyes at Lily’s untouched plate. She turned to one of the footmen. “Please ask the housekeeper to send a loaded tea tray up to Lily’s room, and check with her lady’s maid to ensure she eats something.”
The man nodded and left; Margaret used the distraction to take her leave from the other end of the table.
Beatrice watched her leave and sighed. “How did you know when I didn’t?”
“It’s simply a matter of paying attention,” she said primly.
Claire didn’t tell her the truth: that she could recognize a young lady who was deeply affected by a gentleman, because she’d experienced the same emotions.