Page 48 of The Trouble with Tweed

“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.”

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.”