A Useful Woman Read Free Page B

accepted the second coffee, took a long sip, and sighed like a man who has experienced true greatness. “Ah! Now. Miss Thorne, I beg you to spare your life and my susceptible nerves and tell us quickly. Is it true? Is one of the mighty Lady Patronesses from Almack’s Assembly Rooms about to retire her post?”
    It was tempting to tease her friends a moment longer, but Rosalind decided against it. She needed their goodwill for several important matters yet today. “Yes, it is true,” she said. “I’ve receivedconfirmation from a highly reliable source. One of the ladies is to step down, and there will be a new patroness at Almack’s.”
    â€œI knew it!” cried Alice. “Oh, George will be furious that I got to you before he could!”
    A stranger to London and its gilded social season might have been startled to hear such breathless suspense raised over the question of a single woman on the governing committee of a single suite of assembly rooms; especially when the popular press regularly mocked Almack’s as a dull place that foolishly clung to tyrannical rules regarding dress and manners, not to mention its meager bread-and-butter refreshments.
    Despite this, however, Almack’s remained far more than a set of assembly rooms where dances and dinners might be held. It was nothing less than the gateway to the uppermost strata of London society. To be admitted to one of Almack’s weekly subscription balls was to be given the chance to shine before the women who controlled social life across the length and breadth of the United Kingdoms. To be turned away, on the other hand, marked one indelibly as second rate.
    Only a member of the Almack’s board—a lady patroness—could decide who would be admitted to the assemblies. Without their approval, it did not matter what a person’s rank or fortune might be. That person would be left to languish in the cold.
    â€œNow quickly, Rosalind, which lady is leaving?” Alice Littlefield’s eyes shone with childlike enthusiasm—or perhaps it was simple greed. The lady patronesses were petted, courted, feted, and discussed throughout the fashionable world, and the newspapers observed their movements as closely as if they were royalty. “It can’t be Lady Jersey. She’ll die in harness. The Princess Esterhazy? Or is it Lady Blanchard? There’ve been whispers that Lord Blanchard is in line for a post abroad.”
    Rosalind raised her coffee cup. A small smile played about her mouth as she took a swallow.
    â€œI’ll tell you, but I’ll need something in return. From each of you.”
    â€œMr. Faulks . . .” Alice gripped her pencil as if she meant to squeeze blood or gold from it.
    â€œNow, now, Miss Littlefield. Might I advise you to consider the look of delight on your editor’s face when you deliver this news, piping hot for his delectation? Not to mention the jealousy of your dear brother, George?”
    â€œAll right, all right,” muttered Alice. “You win, Rosalind. What is it you want?”
    â€œA friend of mine, Mrs. Nottingham, is giving a party at her London house to help brighten the little season.” The “little season” was the name given to the time between Parliament’s opening and Easter Week. Usually it lasted most of February and on into March. During this time, fashionable society made its way back to London from the country and set about preparing for the gaudy pageant that was the social season.
    â€œI spy Miss Thorne’s meaning.” Mr. Faulks gave Alice a significant nod. “Mr. Nottingham, MP, has something up his sleeve for the coming session of Parliament and Mrs. N. wishes to rally support in the drawing rooms.”
    Alice rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Faulks, I do read the papers as well as write for them.”
    â€œIt will be an elegant and exclusive event,” Rosalind went on,