Page 14 of The Trouble with Tweed

“What of you, Sylvia? When will you have a Season?” Claire asked, mostly to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“This year. I’m dreadfully nervous. It feels so early, but Mother says nineteen is the perfect age, and I have my birthday next month.”

“The perfect age is whenever you’re ready.”

“Well, I’m not. I doubt I’ll ever be ready.”

“You say that now,” Claire said, “but it’s often the people around us who see us more clearly than we see ourselves. Trust your mother’s judgement. She won’t lead you astray in this regard.”

“I knew I’d always liked you for a reason.” Lady Rutheridge wagged a finger. “Now if you could only move in here and tell her that four times a day, that would be excellent.” She turned to her son. “Are you ready for the Season, my dear?”

Michael arched an eyebrow. “I’m not the one being presented; I hardly think there’s anything for which I need to prepare.”

His mother gave a long-suffering sigh. “You might want to look toward securing a bride one of these years. You aren’t getting any younger.”

“Do you see what I must put up with?” Michael said to Claire, shaking his head. “Perhaps I should take bachelor lodgings, after all. If I were a worse son, I might gently suggest that Mother and Sylvia relocate instead.”

Sylvia exhaled sharply. “You never would—households require management. You’re too busy fencing with Lord Austin or looking at new carriages to pay any kind of attention to such a thing.”

“To hear you speak, one would think I’m some sort of careless dandy.” Michael frowned as if he were affronted. “I can assure you that I give all due care to the family finances. Our ledgers would make an accountant weep in ecstatic appreciation.”

Sylvia blinked pointedly as if she dearly wished to roll her eyes but knew such an expression was unbecoming of a lady. “I’m not speaking of the ledgers. I’m speaking of the household. You know, the maids, the footmen, the cook…”

“They hardly need my input.”

“Because Mother manages them.”

“Isn’t that what a housekeeper is for?” he asked mildly.

“And who do you think manages the housekeeper?” Sylvia shook her head.

Michael frowned as if he’d never thought of it before, then waved his hand as if to dismiss the topic altogether. “I certainly don’t think it’s worth interfering with a system that appears to be working. Besides, I’m an excellent son and wouldn’t dream of displacing my beloved mother or sister.”

“Of course not,” Lady Rutheridge said tartly. “We both know you’d be dreadfully lonely without someone at home with you, which brings us neatly back to the topic of a wife.”

Michael looked heavenward, as if praying for patience. “Remember when I asked you two not to embarrass me in front of Claire?”

“I hardly see why this conversation would be embarrassing. Unless, of course, you’re embarrassed by your inability to secure a bride. Are you embarrassed, Michael?” Lady Rutheridge asked lightly.

Claire hid a snicker behind her teacup.

“It’s always like this with them,” Sylvia leaned forward and whispered. “You should join us for dinner—they truly go the rounds then.”

Even as Claire smiled, she thought it admirable that Michael hadn’t taken bachelor lodgings. Most young men would have done, to escape their mother’s nagging if nothing else. But despite his other faults, Michael loved his family. It had always been one of Claire’s favorite things about him.

“As long as you promise not to wear that terrible blue coat again,” Lady Rutheridge was saying when Claire’s attention returned to the conversation.

“It’s a handsome suit with much wear left in it.” Michael sighed as if this were the continuation of a long-standing dispute.

“It was outdated the day you bought it; I can’t believe you ever purchased such a thing.”

“Perhaps you aren’t the best judge of fashion.”

“Or perhaps you’re just like your father and wouldn’t know a good suit if it walked up to you on the street.”

“Really, Mother, you say the most shocking things.” He turned to Claire. “I shall let you decide.”

“Danger,” Sylvia murmured. “Take it from me, there’s no winning when they ask someone to choose a side in their little arguments. It’s best to beg off if possible.”