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Authors: The Education of Lady Frances
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woman, any woman, who is not after you for herself or her daughter.”
A distinctly cynical look settled on his friend's handsome features. “It may surprise you, Bertie, to hear that I have met such a female, but I don't find prudes any more attractive than I do the most rapacious mama or her daughter.”
“Whoever was it?” Bertie questioned, agog to discover the identity of one female who had not fallen victim to Mainwaring's fortune, social position, attractive harsh-featured countenance, or reputation as a perpetual bachelor.
“It was Lady Frances Cresswell,” was the unwilling reply.
“Fanny, a prude?” Bertie gasped. “Upon my word, she must have been more shattered by her father's death than I thought.''
“You know Lady Cresswell?” Julian asked, wondering at the same time if he had been entirely fair in labeling the lady in question a prude. After all, it was only on the basis of Kitty's description of her learning and his own single experience of estate matters that he had decided she must be a bluestocking. In his experience, most bluestockings were shocking prudes, among many other equally unattractive things. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had been rather hasty in assigning her this trait. No prude would have spent a minute unchaperoned in the company of any man, let alone a man of his reputation, in the library or any other room. Lady Frances had spent fully half an hour alone with him trying to put him in his place, without showing the least sign of discomfort. It was true that she objected to Snythe on moral grounds, but her opinion of the slimy agent was no more censorious than his own. A true prude would have dropped her eyes, blushed, and meekly given in to any of his wishes instead of standing her ground, cheeks flushed, and eyes looking directly and angrily into his own. Not only had she not been meek, she had gotten the better of their encounter. No, he admitted ruefully to himself, whatever Lady Frances was, she was not a prude.
Bertie had been watching the variety of expressions flitting across his friend's face with interest. He would have given a great deal to be able to read them accurately, but, being the good friend he was, contained his curiosity, merely volunteering, “I knew her father.”
Julian's patent disbelief in the friendship between one of London's most dedicated dandies and a scholarly recluse forced Bertie to defend himself. “Dash it all, Julian, you needn't look at me as though I'm a half-wit. If you knew the least bit about these things, you'd know that it takes more than a tailor to make someone an arbiter of fashion. It takes exquisite taste, my boy, and exquisite taste demands long and careful cultivation. I first met Cresswell in Greece when I was on the Grand Tour and he and Elgin were convincing the Greeks to sell them bits of the Parthenon. He knew a devilish lot about Grecian art and had some very interesting aesthetic ideas of his own besides. He took me home to see some of the objets he'd collected on his travels. We became quite friendly and I visited him and his family fairly often while I was there. Frances was only a child at the time, but mature beyond her years, and she used to join us and listen to our discussions.”
Harking back to his visit to Cresswell Manor, Mainwaring couldn't remember anything distinctly, but cudgeling his brains, he did dimly recall an impression of lightness and elegance which had given a clue to the artistic interests and eclectic tastes of Lord Cresswell.
Bertie continued, “When they returned, I visited them down at Cresswell. Not long after, Lady Cresswell died and Frances took over the care of the twins. At times she seemed little older than they were, ready to engage in any romp from tree-climbing to punting on the lake. Well, at any rate, she certainly didn't seem as though she were eleven years older. Lord, I remember one night when she dressed up as the headless horseman reputed
A distinctly cynical look settled on his friend's handsome features. “It may surprise you, Bertie, to hear that I have met such a female, but I don't find prudes any more attractive than I do the most rapacious mama or her daughter.”
“Whoever was it?” Bertie questioned, agog to discover the identity of one female who had not fallen victim to Mainwaring's fortune, social position, attractive harsh-featured countenance, or reputation as a perpetual bachelor.
“It was Lady Frances Cresswell,” was the unwilling reply.
“Fanny, a prude?” Bertie gasped. “Upon my word, she must have been more shattered by her father's death than I thought.''
“You know Lady Cresswell?” Julian asked, wondering at the same time if he had been entirely fair in labeling the lady in question a prude. After all, it was only on the basis of Kitty's description of her learning and his own single experience of estate matters that he had decided she must be a bluestocking. In his experience, most bluestockings were shocking prudes, among many other equally unattractive things. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had been rather hasty in assigning her this trait. No prude would have spent a minute unchaperoned in the company of any man, let alone a man of his reputation, in the library or any other room. Lady Frances had spent fully half an hour alone with him trying to put him in his place, without showing the least sign of discomfort. It was true that she objected to Snythe on moral grounds, but her opinion of the slimy agent was no more censorious than his own. A true prude would have dropped her eyes, blushed, and meekly given in to any of his wishes instead of standing her ground, cheeks flushed, and eyes looking directly and angrily into his own. Not only had she not been meek, she had gotten the better of their encounter. No, he admitted ruefully to himself, whatever Lady Frances was, she was not a prude.
Bertie had been watching the variety of expressions flitting across his friend's face with interest. He would have given a great deal to be able to read them accurately, but, being the good friend he was, contained his curiosity, merely volunteering, “I knew her father.”
Julian's patent disbelief in the friendship between one of London's most dedicated dandies and a scholarly recluse forced Bertie to defend himself. “Dash it all, Julian, you needn't look at me as though I'm a half-wit. If you knew the least bit about these things, you'd know that it takes more than a tailor to make someone an arbiter of fashion. It takes exquisite taste, my boy, and exquisite taste demands long and careful cultivation. I first met Cresswell in Greece when I was on the Grand Tour and he and Elgin were convincing the Greeks to sell them bits of the Parthenon. He knew a devilish lot about Grecian art and had some very interesting aesthetic ideas of his own besides. He took me home to see some of the objets he'd collected on his travels. We became quite friendly and I visited him and his family fairly often while I was there. Frances was only a child at the time, but mature beyond her years, and she used to join us and listen to our discussions.”
Harking back to his visit to Cresswell Manor, Mainwaring couldn't remember anything distinctly, but cudgeling his brains, he did dimly recall an impression of lightness and elegance which had given a clue to the artistic interests and eclectic tastes of Lord Cresswell.
Bertie continued, “When they returned, I visited them down at Cresswell. Not long after, Lady Cresswell died and Frances took over the care of the twins. At times she seemed little older than they were, ready to engage in any romp from tree-climbing to punting on the lake. Well, at any rate, she certainly didn't seem as though she were eleven years older. Lord, I remember one night when she dressed up as the headless horseman reputed
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