Page 33 of The Trouble with Tweed

Michael’s wide eyes flew to hers.

She gave a wincing smile. “A terrible part of town. At the time, I didn’t understand why he would choose to live in such a place. Not when we still had the house. He could have come home.” Her voice sounded like it threatened to crack under the weight of that last word.

Michael didn’t know what to say. He waited a few moments, then asked, “What happened?”

“I knocked on his door.” Her green eyes were filling with tears now, and Michael quickly steered them off of the main road onto a smaller path that was less traveled, to offer her whatever privacy he could.

“He was so drunk he didn’t even recognize me. He thought I was one of his…his women.”

Michael’s eyes went wide with the horror of it even as he plucked the clean linen handkerchief from his jacket and pressed it into her hands. “Did he—?” He didn’t even know what he was about to ask, didn’t know how to finish the question.

Claire shook her head, a jerky, almost violent motion, and dabbed at her eyes. “No, he was too drunk to even open the door. He just bellowed at me to come in. I recognized his voice, so I obeyed. He was on the couch, surrounded by empty bottles. The smell of the place…” Her lip curled in remembered revulsion.

“I wish you hadn’t had to see that.” Michael wished he could go back in time and trounce the late Lord Cavendish himself.

“That’s when I went home and started selling the furniture.” She tilted her head. “It’s interesting…I never knew how to sell things before. How to buy them, yes. But I’d never had to sell anything.” Her fingers tightened around her reticule. “I’d never thought myself a prideful person, but that experience changed my opinion of myself. I found it all so humiliating.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you for saying that, but it’s hardly your fault,” Claire said. “There was a time when I could barely look at Beatrice. She was so ready to forgive Richard—she kept talking about him returning home. She didn’t see him that day, didn’t realize what he truly was. Even now, she says he must have stayed away because he was frightened.” Claire shook her head. “That’s not the case. He wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t embarrassed. He just didn’t care.”

“It doesn’t matter what his reasons were.” Michael frowned. “Not when his actions were wrong.”

“That’s precisely what I’ve told her this entire time,” she said triumphantly.

Michael chose his next words with care. “However, though your sisters went through the same events, they experienced them differently because they are different. You cannot control how Beatrice feels about Richard.”

“I’m not trying to control—” Claire began, but then she frowned. “Or perhaps I am, I don’t know. All I know is that when she forgave him, it made me feel like she was calling me the liar.”

“Have you ever told her that?” he asked gently.

Claire shook her head and stared down at the handkerchief twisted in her fingers. “Now that I’ve said it out loud, I realize how foolish it is. She was just trying to get by. We all were.”

He nodded. “You’re justified in feeling how you do, but it’s only natural that she doesn’t see things the same. You are two very different people. Besides, how can you blame your sisters for not fully understanding the scope of things when you shielded them from much of it?”

“You’re right.” Claire wrinkled her nose as if the words had a foul odor.

“It happens all the time, me being right.”

Claire rolled her eyes, and he chuckled. He was glad that they were comfortable enough with one another to speak so honestly. He was even more glad that Claire’s momentary tears had stopped. The sight of her crying had made him feel sick inside.

“I’ll talk to Beatrice,” she said. “I shouldn’t have let my anger towards Richard spill over onto her.”

“I’m sure there was enough anger and hurt to go around.”

“What about you?” Claire turned to him with a smile. She seemed lighter than she had even moments ago, and he was happy to see it.

“What about me?”

Heaven help him if she turned his own line of questioning back at him and asked what he truly wanted. In that moment, he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to lie, and the truth would frighten her off, would put an end to things before they truly began.

“You and your sisters, do you never quarrel?”

“Of course we do,” he said, relieved. “Sylvia and I, especially. There were periods of our life where it felt like that’s all we did. But we love each other, and we get along very well now. I couldn’t ask for a better sister. She’s grown up to be a kind young woman.”

“She is. It was wonderful to see your mother, too. I admit I’m surprised she seemed so…” She trailed off.

“Happy?” he supplied.