Page 78 of The Trouble with Tweed

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!”