Chapter 25 - Claire #2
When Claire gathered with her sisters in the foyer, Beatrice was the only one not wearing a tiara. Margaret’s was studded with light blue aquamarines that brought out the color of her eyes. Lily’s was adorned in pearls and diamonds.
“Wait just a moment,” Beatrice snapped, her eyes flitting to each of her sisters in turn. Or rather, to their heads. “Where did you get those?”
“William,” they all murmured, as if they’d planned it.
Beatrice propped a hand upon her silk-clad hip. “Why on earth didn’t he get me one?”
Claire was surprised to see the glimmer of true hurt in Beatrice’s eyes, so she said, “I’m not certain what my sisters did to earn their gifts, but he only gave me one because I cried.”
“You cried?” Beatrice blinked with wide eyes. “Why?”
Claire sighed. She should have known that would have been Beatrice’s focus. Claire rarely, if ever, cried.
Lily hurried to the rescue. “I cried in front of William, too,” she admitted. “It made him dreadfully uncomfortable.”
“My tiara also arrived after William caught me in tears,” Margaret said with a wince.
“So you all have been rewarded for your lack of fortitude?” Beatrice scowled. “What on earth is there to cry about, anyway?”
“I wasn’t feeling well,” Claire said, adjusting her long gloves.
“Me too,” Lily murmured. “I was suffering from a female indisposition.”
“Same,” Margaret quickly added, not meeting any of their eyes.
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “So if I were to weep in front of our brother, I might also get some jewelry, is that it?”
“I couldn’t say,” Claire said, smoothing her gown.
“I wonder how one makes oneself cry,” Beatrice murmured.
Thankfully, at that moment, the butler announced that the carriage was ready and waiting.
They gathered up their shawls and purses and gave one last pat to their hair in the mirror.
Lily hurried down the hall to collect William, and in the bustle, their previous conversation seemed all but forgotten.
But really, Claire should have known her sister better.
Beatrice leaned forward and shot Claire a sneaky grin. “Were your tears liquid, or did they come out as snow?”
The theatre was a spectacle of light and darkness. Thick burgundy carpets cushioned each footfall of the hundreds of glittering patrons. It was the most pleasant sort of crowd to be pressed into—laughter, the tinkling of champagne flutes, murmured conversations between friends.
Of course, to Claire it only served as a foil to the deep loneliness she felt inside, ever since she’d realized that things between her and Michael were perhaps ruined forever. She shook the thought from her head and resolved to face this, one of her final nights in London, with dignity.
The final ball of the Season was tomorrow.
Though there were a myriad of other activities one might engage in to draw out the end of the most social time of the year, Claire was determined to quit the city in favor of one of her brother’s country estates as soon as possible.
After all, the closing ball marked the end of her obligation toward William’s insistence that she have at least one proper Season.
With that concluded, Claire might start as she meant to go on… as a spinster.
For Claire now knew that she could love none other but Michael. Since he wasn’t an option, she would remain alone. It might not have been such a terrible thought, if Claire hadn’t believed—for one shining moment—that there might be something more than friendship between them.
No matter. What was done was done.
“What on earth is the matter with you, Claire?” Beatrice said.
Claire frowned. She’d chosen this particular spot in the lobby because it was half hidden behind a large pillar and a very healthy fern.
Lady Rutheridge dearly loved the theater, and often the entire family could be found within the confines of these walls.
Claire didn’t want to have to make pleasant small talk with the lady, not while Claire’s heart was still breaking over the loss of Michael.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Claire said, gritting the words between her teeth.
Of all the times for Beatrice to come and have a go at her!
“That’s not true, and we both know it,” she said doggedly.
“Nothing at all is the matter.”
“Claire.” Beatrice blinked at her with wide eyes. “Despite the differences and misunderstandings we’ve had in the past, surely you know that I care for you greatly. We’re sisters.”
Claire frowned, studying Beatrice’s features. She certainly looked sincere. She sounded as if she meant her words, too.
“So what is wrong now?” Beatrice persisted.
Claire shook her head, her lips tight.
Even if she’d wanted to speak about it, there was no possible way she could form the words without dissolving into a blubbering mess. And she’d promised herself that all the weeping into her pillow was behind her. She certainly couldn’t start up again here, in public.
“Beatrice, Claire!” Lily called as genteelly as one could when one was trying to get their sisters’ attention from across a crowded room. “This way!”
Beatrice shook her head as if she knew the moment was lost. She and Claire pressed through the crowd with many “pardon me’s” and soon joined Margaret and Lily at the edge of the crowd.
“You look very flushed,” Claire said to Margaret.
Her sister’s cheeks and neck were pink; she fanned herself with a feather-tipped fan.
“It’s the crowd,” she said, just a little too loudly to be believable. “Nothing more.”
Claire frowned. Lily gave a hiccup of a giggle.
“Let’s find our seats before Margaret melts into a puddle, shall we?” Beatrice said. “Honestly, you two can’t be left alone for moments these days without getting up to something inappropriate.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Claire asked.
Beatrice widened her eyes. “While you’ve been cloistered away these past few days, our sisters have become exceedingly shocking.”
“Don’t say such a thing where others might hear you, even if you are only joking,” Claire chided.
“I’m altogether serious. As if the sheer number of beaux that have trampled through our parlor wasn’t enough, now they’ve narrowed it down.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“I beg of you, Beatrice, be silent on the matter,” Lily pleaded. “It isn’t funny. Nothing at all is settled, and you well know it.”
“What will you give me?” Beatrice stopped dead in the hallway; Margaret plowed into her with a grunt. “What will you give me if I say nothing more?”
“Our sisterly affection, of course,” Margaret said.
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “I already have that for free.”
“What do you want?” Lily said.
Beatrice’s eyes flicked up to her tiara, her lips pulled to the side in a thoughtful expression.
“You may have it,” Lily said. “It’s quite twisted and pinned into my hair at the moment, but I’ll give it to you when we get home.”
“No, thank you,” Beatrice said, sailing down the hallway once more. The others hurried to catch up with her. “I have plans on how to acquire one of those myself. Besides, pearls suit your complexion much more than they do mine.”
Lily turned to Margaret with pleading eyes.
Margaret shook her head stoutly. “I didn’t offer her mine for a reason, Lily. Aquamarines are my favorite, as you well know.”
“Fine.” Lily threw up her hands. It appeared her eyes might be welling with tears. “You may as well tell everyone.”
“Sisterly affection will suffice,” Beatrice grumbled. “There’s no need to cry about it.”
“Apparently, crying is the key to tiaras—both obtaining them and keeping them,” Claire said dryly.
William was already seated in their box. It was one of the best, with a full view of the stage and, more importantly, the entire crowd.
“I’ve heard rumor that Lord Doyle will attend with Miss Meyer tonight,” Beatrice said, all irritation from the former conversation seemingly forgotten. “And someone saw him at Rotherton’s yesterday.”
“It is the end of the Season,” Lily said, nervously pleating her shawl between her fingers. “I’ve no doubt that several gentlemen will be making their declarations soon.”
“One wonders if our brother will be among them,” Claire murmured.
She’d noted how often his eyes strayed toward the seats occupied by Miss Dahlia Warrington and her sister, Rachel.
“If he’d been smarter, it could have been done before the Season began,” Margaret whispered back. “Would have saved him an entire heap of trouble.”
“And then our dear brother would have been at home, solely focused on guiding his sisters through their first Season,” Claire mused.
“On second thought…” Margaret said.
“You do realize I can hear you?” William said archly.
Beatrice laughed and Lily gave one of her nervous hiccup-giggles.
“Are you quite all right?” Claire leaned forward to study her. “Are you feeling well?”
William turned to them with a frown. “Are you not feeling well, Lily? You didn’t have to attend if you’d preferred not to.”
Claire frowned. If she’d known attendance was optional, she wouldn’t be here. She’d just spotted Lady Rutheridge and Sylvia in the crowd.
And behind them…Michael.
Claire couldn’t help her sharp intake of breath.
Thankfully, it was hidden by the sudden strains of the strings warming up from the orchestra pit.
None of the Rutheridges seemed to have noticed her family yet, but it was only a matter of time.
Once one was seated, there was little to do but look around at the people in the theatre.
It was more than half the draw of attending such performances—noting who was seated with whom, and what the ladies were wearing.
“Claire,” Beatrice hissed, nudging her with a sharp elbow.
Beatrice canted her head at Michael, who Claire now saw was not the last member of the Rutheridge party.
A young lady with dark hair had followed him into their row, and as Claire watched, Michael turned to say something to her.
She laughed gaily in reply, the tinkling sounds of her merriment somehow reaching all the way up to their box.
Claire’s stomach turned. She eyed the exit, but the lights were coming down, and her entire family would have to stand to let her out.
Better they stay seated; Claire could pray that Michael was too enthralled with his lovely companion to notice anyone else.
The thought made her feel quite ill, even as she had it.
The lights on the stage went brighter, washing a warm glow over the crowd, and the opening applause began. Still, Claire could barely tear her eyes from Michael, from the young lady at his side. Whoever she was, she was quite beautiful, with a pert nose and all that lustrous dark hair.
“Who is she?” Beatrice murmured.
Claire shook her head mutely.
“She’s not half as pretty as you are,” Beatrice whispered firmly.
Claire sternly told herself not to stare, but it was impossible—her eyes kept swinging back to Michael’s form, to the young lady sitting far too close to him for Claire’s liking.
Halfway through the first act, it happened. Claire had been watching the stage, counting and telling herself that she absolutely must not look back at Michael until she reached one hundred.
She only made it to seventy-two—a personal record—but when she glanced at him, he was staring up at her.
Michael’s eyes bored into hers from across the theatre.
Claire knew she should look away. But with every breath, her chest grew tighter until she was nearly gasping.
She couldn’t read his expression in the dim light of the theatre—was that anger lining his features?
It was Michael who finally broke the charged moment by looking away. Claire looked to the stage, tears building along her lower lashes. She could barely breathe—there was no way she could pay attention to the storyline of the play.
Though it did seem that someone on stage had died, or perhaps they were falling in love.
At the moment, it all felt the same to Claire.
The following morning, though all the London-based Prestons were present, the breakfast table was largely silent.
Margaret prodded at her waffles listlessly.
Lily sipped her tea, staring at her saucer.
Claire couldn’t help replaying the night before in her mind—all she could see were Michael’s eyes, and the beautiful young lady sitting next to him.
“What on earth is the matter with the lot of you?” William finally asked. “Usually there’s been at least one sisterly row by the time the bacon’s gone.”
“I cannot speak for my sisters,” Beatrice said, her words slow and purposeful, “but I was very overcome by the play last night. Why, I didn’t sleep a wink for all my crying.”
Beatrice stared at William wide-eyed, as if waiting for a response, but he simply snapped his paper higher and grunted.
“You had better pinch some color into your cheeks before all your beaux arrive, that’s for certain,” William said.
“I don’t know if I’m feeling up for visitors today,” Lily admitted.
“Margaret, please pass the pepper,” Beatrice said, straightening in her chair.
Margaret complied a bit distractedly. “Me neither. Perhaps we can be not at home to visitors today?”
“Yes, please,” Lily said.
“Indeed,” Beatrice added, her words sounding pedantic and rehearsed. “I’m quite depressed.”
It was only because Claire happened to be watching that she saw Beatrice quickly shake a large amount of pepper onto the back of her hand and snort it as if it were snuff.
Instantly, Beatrice devolved into a fit, alternately coughing and half-retching.
Her face reddened, but there was nothing about it that spoke of tears—more like she’d bitten into a bad herring.
William’s paper lowered. His chin drew back, his forehead wrinkled. “Good heavens, Beatrice. Do I need to call the physician?”
She shook her head wildly, though she wasn’t able to properly respond. Snot began to drip from her nose.
Claire thumped her unhelpfully on the back. “She gets like this sometimes. It will pass. We’re only lucky it’s never happened in the parlor, in front of gentleman guests.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes—or it appeared she was trying, at least. They were already quite narrow, due to the coughing and gagging. Her attempt at a scalding stare was altogether ruined when she sneezed abruptly into her linen napkin.
William frowned at each of them in turn. “Very well. We’ll shut the house to visitors for the day. Though I suppose I don’t have to remind you that the Season is rapidly drawing to a close, and some of your callers will soon be leaving town for the countryside.”
“We’ll be sure to set Beatrice to rights before tomorrow,” Claire said solemnly, patting her sister’s back a little harder than strictly necessary. “A dunk in a well ought to do it.”
Beatrice scowled at her, blew her nose with a honk, and promptly retch-coughed again.