He should not have enjoyed that nearly as much as he did.
CHAPTER 10
She had been to the theatre in Manchester, of course, yet Manchester, for all its industry and consequence, was not Drury Lane; and however firmly Francesca had schooled herself against being impressed by London’s grandeur, she could not deny that to hear the name of Edmund Kean spoken aloud was to feel some small thrill of anticipation.
The carriages drew up in a glittering succession before the theatre, lanterns flashing upon painted panels and polished harness. The entrance itself was a spectacle before any curtain had risen: ladies in rich silks and satins, cloaks lined with fur, diamonds at throats and ears trembling in the candlelight; gentlemen in formal evening dress with the self-possession of men who had long believed the world existed for their inspection; servants darting back and forth like the unseen machinery of splendour.
As they descended from Lord Upton’s carriage, Francesca paused for the briefest moment upon the step, not from uncertainty but from the instinctive wish to take in the whole. The façade, illuminated against the night, rose before them with that peculiar air great London institutions possessed, as if merely to stand there were to declare itself indispensable. Everylighted window promised movement and observation; every open doorway seemed to invite both delight and scrutiny.
“It is absurd,” she murmured before she could stop herself.
Major Manners, who had already turned halfway towards her, one hand ready in case the step proved treacherous, inclined his head. “The theatre?”
“London,” she replied, “though perhaps that is only another word for the same thing.”
His mouth altered—not quite a smile, but near enough to it that she felt the familiar, inconvenient sensation of wanting to provoke one outright.
“I have long suspected,” he said, “that London considers life a series of performances.”
She considered his words. “I believe that may well be an accurate assessment. I am too new to Town to have formed a firm opinion.”
He offered her his arm and she placed her gloved hand upon it. There was an ease in the gesture now that had not existed on the first evening at Upton Place. Tonight it felt less like arrangement and more like alliance, though she was not yet foolish enough to say so aloud.
The crowd pressed and shifted around them as they advanced towards the entrance. A dowager in violet satin nearly swept others aside by the width of her train alone; two young gentlemen in immaculate evening dress stood laughing too loudly about something they would, most likely, not remember in the morning; a girl in white ruffles, scarcely out, glanced from box to box with all the trembling hopefulness of one newly delivered to judgement. Francesca saw everything at once and liked none of it half so much as she thought she ought.
The Season was much the same in her mind. ’Twas all glitter, all appraisal, all arrangement. Women dressed and displayed themselves to advantage, smiled, danced, and listenedwhile fortunes, names, alliances, and expectations arranged themselves invisibly about them like a net cast in silk. It was called Society, and when one grew tired of that word it became, in quieter and more truthful thoughts, the Marriage Mart. She had money—therefore she was desired. She had opinions—therefore she was to be corrected, guided, or charmed into making them more agreeable. She had lucrative estates—therefore she was not wholly considered a woman so much as a beneficial transaction of property.
The thought changed her expression, and she was glad that the motion of the crowd required her to look ahead rather than dwell on it.
“You are frowning,” Major Manners said quietly.
“Am I?”
“You are.”
“Perhaps I agree with your objection to frivolity.”
“I object to most things done by Society,” he replied. “It has a way of making nonsense appear sacred.”
She turned her head just enough to look at him properly. “You do not care for Society at all?”
“I do not care for the notion that duty must necessarily equal enjoyment.”
She laughed softly. “No. Nor do I.”
It was a trifling exchange. It meant, perhaps, no more than that two reasonably intelligent people disliked the same species of social absurdity, yet something in it pleased her disproportionately. She had spent the past week enduring a parade of tones—admiring, patronizing, strategically sympathetic, or serenely inquisitive. There was relief in hearing a gentleman speak as if he, too, found the machinery ridiculous. It made her feel less singular in her resistance to it. More than that, it made him seem, however briefly, not like another part of the machine but a gentleman accidentally trapped inside it.
They had reached the broad interior stair, and the full magnificence of Drury Lane declared itself at once. Light shone everywhere, golden rays catching upon carved edges. The hum of voices rose into the vastness overhead. Plush carpets covered the floor and stairs; gilt abounded and there was a constant movement of people ascending and descending, as though they themselves were part of some grand decorative scheme. If the exterior had announced consequence, the interior announced appetite—for art, for spectacle, for being seen at such artistic spectacles, and perhaps, most of all, for seeing one another.
Francesca looked upward and could not help but admire it. Whatever her objections to frivolity, grandeur of this sort imposed itself upon the senses. One might dislike the company and still be dazzled by the architecture.
“It is enough to turn any sensible person into a fool for at least a quarter of an hour,” she said.
“Then you must permit yourself to rely upon my fortitude,” Major Manners replied.
“Must I?”
“I have never been accused of yielding to Society’s schemes.”
