Chapter 2
Francesca Vale had long suspected that grief, like rain, did not so much pass as merely alter its manner of falling.
It had once been a downpour, sudden and merciless, the sort that drenched one through.
Now it came more quietly, as a persistent damp that settled in the seams of every day and made things feel slightly chilled.
She stood before the glass in her bedchamber and watched her maid fasten the last hook at the back of her gown with practised fingers, and thought, not for the first time, that Society had an inhuman talent for requiring a young woman to look radiant at the very instant she felt least inclined to it.
“You will do exceedingly well, miss,” said Nelly, stepping back to survey her work with the satisfied air of an artist who has brought order out of chaos.
Francesca’s maid was not much older than her mistress, though she had the advantage of having been born without a fortune and therefore had learned early that other people’s comfort was a trade.
She was small, neat, and possessed of an expression which conveyed both innocence and the precise opposite.
Francesca trusted her more than she trusted most of the gentlemen who professed themselves devoted to her welfare.
“I should prefer to do tolerably,” Francesca replied, meeting her own gaze in the glass. Tolerably was a state less likely to provoke ambition in other people.
Nelly’s mouth twitched. “That is because you have sense, miss, but sense is not what they will reward in London. They will reward a pretty smile and demure gratitude.”
“Demure gratitude,” Francesca repeated, with mild scorn, “for what? For being invited to dine by people who will speak of my fortune as if it were a charming anecdote?”
“For being invited at all,” Nelly said matter-of-factly, reaching for the ribbon that would finish the coiffure she had constructed with patient tyranny. “You may not like it, but that is the way of things.”
Francesca narrowed her eyes a little. “You have been to London no more than I. I have lived upon an estate surrounded by tenants, clergy, magistrates, manufacturers, and gentlemen who spoke of ‘the common good’ while increasing their rents, yet here I am considered too na?ve to make my own way about.”
“I merely wish you to survive the evening with your temper intact,” Nelly returned, unruffled.
“My temper will be perfectly intact,” Francesca said, and knew as she said it that she had just surrendered the argument.
Nelly, who was never deceived by a surrender, tied the ribbon with a final decisive tug. “There. That will do. Lady Upton will be pleased that you do not look like a reform pamphlet in human form.”
Francesca gave a short laugh. “Do not be absurd. I am quite capable of being a reform pamphlet and a lady at the same time.”
“That is what I am afraid of,” Nelly said sweetly.
Francesca regarded herself again. The gown was mourning’s cousin rather than its child: a deep silvery grey which flattered her complexion without announcing tragedy, boasted a modesty of cut to satisfy any stickler, and a quality of silk that would satisfy the sharpest-eyed dowager.
It was, in short, respectable enough to disarm and costly enough to attract notice, which meant it was precisely what she would not choose for herself.
“I detest it,” Francesca said quietly.
“You detest the reason,” Nelly corrected. “The gown is innocent.”
“It colludes,” Francesca murmured.
Nelly’s hands paused a moment at Francesca’s hair. “Miss… you could refuse to go.”
Francesca parted her lips, for the notion was tempting in the way that throwing oneself into a river was tempting when one was hot and angry and tired of propriety. Then she shook her head. “No. I cannot.”
“Because of Sir Percival?”
She barely inclined her head—because of Sir Percival, and because of the polite, immovable net he had cast around her in the name of duty and affection.
She had been cajoled into this Season with the gentlest cruelty imaginable; which was to say, with appeals that she consider her late mother’s wishes, her father’s ‘intentions’, the responsibility attached to so considerable a fortune, and the necessity of appearing in Town to secure her future.
“My uncle thinks,” Francesca said, “that if I am not exhibited, I shall wither on the vine.”
Nelly finished inserting a pin and stepped back again. “Do you have any intention of making a match?”
“I mean,” Francesca replied, “to do precisely as I please.”
Nelly’s expression, reflected behind her, held both admiration and apprehension. “That might be difficult, miss, if Sir Percival tries to arrange something.”
Francesca considered her own reflection; she saw, for an instant, the set of her jaw, the brightness in her eyes that was jaded by hardship, and she remembered an older man in uniform, laughing as if laughter were an entitlement, his hand on her father’s arm, his voice oily with persuasion.
She remembered the way he had looked at the house, at the fields, at the men in the yard, and then at her, as if she were part of the inventory and might be moved wherever it suited him.
She remembered, too, the scandal of that regiment’s time in the parish: the petty thefts, the unpaid bills, the threats disguised as jests, the officers who assumed that because a gentleman’s coat had shiny buttons, it also had honour.
“No one can force a match,” Francesca said, and the words were not for Nelly.
Nelly’s eyes softened. “No, miss. Not if I have any say in the matter.”
Francesca turned, impulsively, and caught her maid’s hand. “Thank you, Nelly.”
Nelly flushed, as if embarrassed by affection, which was one of the few things that could embarrass her. “Well,” she said briskly, pulling her hand away only to smooth a crease that did not exist, “you had better be going. You must not keep Lady Upton waiting.”
Lady Upton. Francesca exhaled slowly. She had met Lady Upton twice since arriving in Town: once when she had been conveyed, like a parcel, to her uncle’s London house, and again when Lady Upton had called in person, all graciousness and careful appraisal, to invite her to dinner and to declare, with maternal benevolence, that she would launch Francesca into Society.
It had been done with such open kindness that any refusal would have appeared ungrateful, which was, of course, the point.
To be chaperoned was to be displayed, and Francesca had no desire to be displayed. She wished to be listened to, which was an altogether different undertaking.
“What do you know of Lord Upton?” Francesca asked, not for the first time.
Nelly shrugged. “He is a powerful gentleman, miss.”
“In what way is he powerful?”
“In the Lords, I understand. He is one of the King’s most trusted advisors, they say.”
‘They’ being the household servants, Francesca reflected, hiding a small smile of comprehension.
“And what do you know of his son?” she asked, though she pretended it was a careless addition. She had heard enough already to know that Arch Manners was to feature in her evening as insistently as the soup.
Nelly’s brows lifted. “Lord Dandridge?”
“The younger one,” Francesca said. “Major Manners, is it not, or has he ceased to be a soldier?”
“He is still a soldier, I believe, though whether he wishes to be, I cannot say,” Nelly replied, with a look that implied she had heard as much as any maid in London could hear, which was generally everything of consequence.
Francesca felt her fingers grip her fan, an idle gesture that betrayed more than she intended. Slowly, she relaxed them. “I met him several years ago,” she said, as if she were defending herself against an accusation no one had made.
Nelly smiled faintly, a dreamy look in her eye. “I should not imagine you would forget him. For a gentleman, he makes a strong impression.”
“A gentleman,” Francesca said promptly, with the certainty of one-and-twenty years and the memory of fourteen.
Nelly’s gaze slid to her reflection in the glass. “He is Lord Upton’s son.”
“That does not make him a gentleman,” Francesca returned tartly. “It makes him privileged.”
“Sometimes,” Nelly said cautiously, “privilege and gentility do coincide, miss.”
“Not in soldiers,” Francesca said.
Nelly made a small sound that might have been agreement or merely prudence. She reached for Francesca’s cloak. “The carriage will be here.”
Francesca accepted the cloak and allowed it to be settled upon her shoulders.
As she did so, her gaze strayed, as it always did, to the small writing desk near the window.
There, among the polite notes that had arrived since she had come to Town, sat one letter in Kendall’s hand.
Thomas Kendall had written three days ago from her estate with updates regarding accounts, tenants, and the latest schemes for improvement.
It was a sensible letter, full of figures and calm reassurance, and Francesca had read it twice, not for its content but for the comfort of his familiar tone.
She had known him since childhood. He was the son of her father’s solicitor, and though the world would insist that a solicitor’s son was of a different sphere, Francesca had never been able to see the merit of spheres that kept intelligence on one side and birth on the other.
Kendall understood her estate. He spoke of labour and industry as realities, not abstractions. He spoke of profit with a conscience, which was more than she could say for most gentlemen in Parliament, who spoke of the poor only when it served their speeches.
Since coming to Town, she had found herself leaning upon him more than she liked to admit—less for comfort, though there was comfort in his steadiness, than for the simple relief of speaking to someone who answered her thoughts as if they mattered.
It was an intimacy of practice rather than sentiment: a confidence built in the quiet habit of making decisions together.