Dearest Gentle Reader,
George Macartney wrote of our wonderful Britain as a “…vast empire on which the sun never sets.”
Far be it for this author to contradict such an esteemed personage, but experience has taught us that the sun does indeed set, and the British do their best work under cover of darkness.
While promenades, parties and pageants in the daylight do expose their share of unexpected events, it is when dusk arrives that the ton truly begins to shine.
In recognition of its lure to us all, the ton threw off its garish day-wear to twinkle in the moon’s light at the elegantly decorated Osterley Hall.
It was in these hallowed halls that the Queen finally discovered her diamond; Miss Francesca Bridgerton, a delightfully sweet girl whose gentle glimmer drew the eye of our esteemed monarch.
Miss Francesca, the sixth of the amusingly alphabetically named Bridgerton siblings, is a virtuoso musician and possesses that most coveted of qualifications for any gentleman suitor- tranquillity.
Like a still lake lapping gently in the moonlight, Miss Francesca will sparkle with all the reflected light that Her Majesty bestows on her. Let us hope that, unlike the rest of her siblings’ affairs, Miss Francesca’s choices do not make waves.
But, speaking of making waves, there are those in our society whose actions are like those of a swan laying atop the waters. On the surface they appear as should be but underneath there is a frantic scrabbling in murky depths.
Mr Jonathon Carmichael of the Catterlis estate has set his sights on a lofty position in parliament with his strong advocation for the abolition of slavery. His speeches towards the House of Lords have had him eloquently speak on a subject so dear to our own Queen’s heart. But it has come to this author’s attention that not only is his own business supported entirely on the back of this diabolical trade, but he actually owns several plantations in the New World Colonies under the pseudonym Lord Elliot- a title he neither has nor deserves.
Perhaps Mr Carmichael is unaware of the dangerous game he is playing, not least by attempting to fool our monarch, circumvent our laws and hoodwink many of our Lords with promises of false backing and support. After all, one should not attribute to malice what one can ascribe to stupidity.
This must be why he was unable to understand the philosophical bent of our latest ton beauty who was overheard questioning whether caterpillars understand their metamorphosis into butterflies or if they assume their chrysalis is their death shroud?
What a poignant question! And one with metaphysical merits for us to ponder. When we are undergoing trouble, do any of us know whether we will flourish as a butterfly or crumble in our cocoon? Do we liken change to death?
Perhaps we should ask Mr Carmichael whether his activities feel transformative or deadly?
A far more interesting conversation than the weather or the latest fashion plate.
Let us hope that Lady Theodosia Fife persists in her admirable quest to question our world and impart vital knowledge, for in her ethereal way she has proven herself far more captivating than any diamond. Indeed, one finds the moonstone a more fitting comparison. For just like the mystic stone that adorned the crowns of ancient queens and has, since time immemorial, served as a beacon of enlightenment and wisdom, our dear Lady Theodosia holds court with her illuminating perspectives and dazzling insights.
Her influence has already worked wonders upon the previously retiring Miss Penelope Featherington and Miss Helen Heatherly, coaxing these notorious wallflowers into full and glorious bloom. Why, at the latest assembly, Miss Heatherly found herself positively besieged by a veritable phalanx of eager gentlemen, each vying rather dramatically for the privilege of her attention. And Miss Featherington—who once clung to the ballroom walls with the tenacity of ivy—was observed not only participating in multiple sets but engaging in what one might dare call spirited conversation with Lord Fife himself! To witness more than a single stammered syllable pass her lips in his lordship’s presence is nothing short of miraculous—a transformation that has set every tongue in the county wagging.
Whether these alterations last longer than a turn of the moon will be anyone’s guess but never fear, this author will be watching.
Regards
Lady Whistledown.
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