Chapter 14
They had scarcely returned from the Park before Lady Upton, with the serene authority of a general who intended to capitalize upon a successful skirmish before the troops lost heart, declared that Francesca must come upstairs with her for tea.
Lord Upton, who had the look of a man long accustomed to strategic retreats, kissed his wife’s cheek, nodded to Francesca with mock gravity, and withdrew to his study, where she imagined politics of a more official kind awaited him.
Major Manners had been dismissed in an equally brisk fashion—having been directed to deposit Miss Vale at Upton House instead of Sir Percival’s—though not before Lady Upton had thanked him, in a motherly tone, for his escort.
Francesca had accompanied her ladyship because refusal would have required an energy she did not presently possess.
The Park, though outwardly no more than a parade of equipages, glances, and conversational manoeuvres, had left her more fatigued than any honest labour at Vale Hall ever had.
There was something exhausting in being studied under sunlight by people who imagined themselves subtle.
Lady Upton’s private sitting room was, however, a relief after the public staging of the afternoon.
It was feminine without being fragile, comfortable without sacrificing consequence, and arranged with the excellent taste of a woman who understood that elegance ought to appear effortless even when bought at great expense.
The walls were papered in a delicate pattern of trailing ivy and pale rose, their soft colours lending warmth to the room even in winter light, while the upholstery—of a muted sage silk, finely embroidered at the edges—spoke of refinement without ostentation.
Tea was brought in immediately, of course. Nothing in that household was ever unprepared for Lady Upton’s next move.
“You did well, my dear,” she said as she settled herself on the sofa.
Francesca seated herself opposite and accepted the cup offered by a maid. “Without wishing to be uncivil, ma’am, may I ask if ‘well’ constitutes slight condemnation or faint praise?”
“It is praise,” Lady Upton replied. “You ought to learn to recognize it when it comes from me.”
“I do recognize it,” Francesca said. “I am merely wary of the uses to which it may later be put.”
Lady Upton laughed outright at that and took up her own cup. “Excellent. Suspicion is one of the few things that improve a woman’s chances in Society.”
Francesca allowed herself the smallest smile. “What are the others? I would have thought lineage and beauty to be the foremost qualities.”
“Lineage of course,” Lady Upton said. “Beauty, however, is secondary to full coffers.”
There was every likelihood, Francesca thought, that her ladyship spoke the truth. It was exactly why she herself disliked so much of London.
For a few moments they drank their tea in companionable quiet.
Lady Upton had the good sense not to begin at once, which Francesca appreciated almost as much as she distrusted it.
This consideration did not, however, keep her ladyship from examining Francesca over the rim of her cup.
Lady Upton examined everyone. Yet there was warmth in her observance, and that, more than scrutiny alone, made resistance difficult.
It was easier to oppose a tyrant than a strategist who had taken the trouble to be kind.
At last, Lady Upton set down her cup and said, in the tone of a woman introducing a minor correction rather than a campaign, “You must not converse too much upon politics just yet.”
Francesca lifted her brows. “Must I not?”
“You spoke very well,” Lady Upton continued, “that is not the difficulty. The difficulty is that you will gain a reputation before the Season properly begins, whether it is justified or not.”
Francesca rested her cup in its saucer with care. “Is it not better for them to know what I am from the first?”
Lady Upton’s expression changed into amusement so polished it was nearly pitying. “No one presents their true selves, my dear.” She laughed lightly, as though the foolishness of the alternative were too obvious to require defence. “At least, not if they wish to make the best match.”
Francesca looked at her for a moment in silence.
That was the reason for nearly everything she disliked in Town: not the gowns or the balls, not even the Marriage Mart in all its perfumed hypocrisy, but the universal agreement that concealment was civility and performance the proper price of acceptance.
One did not merely arrive in London. One had to edit oneself into something that could be consumed without causing dyspepsia.
“Supposing one does not wish to proceed in the approved manner, what is to be done?” she asked at last.
Lady Upton waved one elegant hand. “Then one must be much stronger than the rest, which perhaps you are. I still consider it prudent not to set up the tabbies’ bristles by announcing every principle before the first fortnight is spent.”
Francesca could not wholly deny the wisdom of that. She disliked it, but she could not deny it.
“Are you suggesting I should let them mistake me for a decorative widgeon with a large purse?”
“Let them underestimate you until it behoves you not to be underestimated,” Lady Upton explained patiently.
The distinction was fine, but not negligible.
Francesca leaned back slightly. “When will it benefit me?”
Lady Upton’s eyes brightened. “Ah. There speaks a young lady who may yet enjoy strategy.”
“It is a necessity in my position.”
“You may still be good at it.”
Lady Upton reached for another cake, but seemed to recollect herself and set it down again, untouched.
“Now,” she said briskly, “you have been to a ball, the theatre, and the Park, which is an excellent beginning. The world has seen you. It has approved your face. It has discussed your fortune. In short, all the indispensable nonsense has commenced.”
Francesca inclined her head. “Then I am inexpressibly relieved to have satisfied the requirements of superficiality.”
“You have only begun to satisfy them.” Lady Upton smiled. “The true test, however, is not admiration. Admiration is plentiful and often fleeting. The real test will be gaining the approval of the patronesses.”
Francesca had heard enough of the patronesses of Almack’s to know that they possessed, in the collective imagination of Society mothers, something akin to the power of bishops and executioners combined. They admitted, excluded, and sanctified the success of any debutante.
“How,” she asked, “am I to secure the favour of ladies who have made an art out of judging everyone?”
“By giving them something interesting to sanction.”
Francesca narrowed her eyes slightly. That sounded less like a principle than a manoeuvre, which meant Lady Upton was about to enjoy herself.
“Knowing your predilection for reform,” her ladyship continued, “I have decided that we shall emphasize it as an asset.”
Francesca sat very still. “That sounds ominous.”
“Everything in London is ruinous if done badly. Fortunately, we shall do it well.” Lady Upton folded her hands with evident satisfaction. “We shall host a political dinner.”
Francesca stared at her. “Are there dinners in London which are not?”
“Touché, my dear. You are correct. In a sense, everything is political.”
Francesca took a sip of tea and set down her cup. “Lady Upton, that sounds less like presentation and more like provocation.”
“It is presentation shaped by strategy,” Lady Upton said serenely.
“There is a difference, though your tone suggests you may not yet appreciate it.
Your age gives you some allowance. You were not brought up in the traditional young, innocent and, I daresay, silly manner apportioned to most girls making their come out.
As your chaperone, I do appreciate your sense.
Francesca, who had just spent the morning suspecting embezzlement and the afternoon walking through Hyde Park like a brood mare with opinions, thought herself old enough for many things and too young for none. Keeping her reflections to herself, she said only, “Whom do you propose to provoke?”
“Everyone. I wish to be helpful in guiding your Season.”
Francesca had not yet discovered whether Lady Upton’s greatest weapon was her certainty or the fact that it so often appeared absurd right up until the moment it proved effective.
“A dinner,” she said again, because repetition sometimes assisted the understanding of madness.
“A small one,” Lady Upton replied. “No more than twenty persons. Intimacy is influence when properly arranged.”
“Whom would we invite?”
“Countess Lieven, if she may be tempted, which she probably may if one flatters her discernment and does not seat her near a bore. She is the true influence in that marriage. Princess Esterházy, whose husband is enough of an ambassador to be useful and absent enough to be tolerable. A few parliamentary men who matter, a few who mean to matter, and two or three ladies whose approval travels faster than official recommendation.”
Francesca stared, then laughed—not because the notion was genuinely amusing, but because without laughter she might have called it impossible, and somehow that seemed the lesser response.
“Have you already planned this?”
“My dear girl,” said Lady Upton, almost offended, “I had planned it before we reached the end of Rotten Row.”
That, Francesca thought, was the true horror of aristocratic efficiency.
“Have you ever hosted a dinner?” Lady Upton asked.
“Of course,” Francesca said, “but never one so prestigious.”
“No matter. Political dinners are merely ordinary dinners which require precise seating arrangements and excellent wine.”
Francesca bit back another smile.
Lady Upton went on. “I shall consult Upton about the list, of course. He will have opinions. Men enjoy opinions, especially when they believe them to be invited. Are there any particular Members of Parliament whom you regard as essential to your cause?”