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 manin 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.
She thought of London now, of its broad streets and narrower minds, of its brilliance and its rot. She had arrivedless than a fortnight ago, and already she felt as if she lived in a theatre where the audience applauded their own reflection. The houses were grand, the manners polished, the conversations carefully arranged so that no one might accidentally say what they meant unless it was fashionable to mean it.
And yet beneath it all was motion, restless and impatient like the Thames itself. Pamphlets were passed from hand to hand. There were dinners where men spoke of corn laws and wages as if the nation were a set of ledgers; there were drawing rooms where women spoke of charity whilst husbands spoke of votes, and there were salons—true salons, not merely parties—where ideas moved faster than paper could contain them. In Manchester she had belonged to some social reform groups, but they were nothing like those she might find here.
