Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [39]
That afternoon her father summoned her to his study. She stood dutifully before him, her hands clasped together, eyes lowered, hating him with every fiber of her being.
His brow furrowed as he looked at her. She was eighteen, no longer a child, and she was virtually unmarriageable. Of course, if he gave her a good enough dowry he could find someone to take her off his hands, but he could not allow her to marry just anybody, she would have children—his grandchildren, and they would have to be a credit to the Harrison name. He frowned, wondering how he could make her more presentable. She must be taught how to behave so that she could redeem herself in the eyes of society and make a decent marriage. If his plan failed, then he would simply claim her health had broken, like her mother’s, and banish her to the ranch.
Francie stood quietly, eyes downcast, and he suddenly noticed how tall she was. Her spine was straight, her complexion clear and soft, and her blond hair shiny. Her breasts under the stiff wool of her dress were small but nicely rounded and with a bit of grooming he could see she might be made into an attractive marriage proposition. With the right dowry, of course. And in return he would demand an aristocratic title. Nothing less would do.
He said, “So. You are eighteen today, Francesca.”
She lifted her head and looked at him, surprised. He had never mentioned her birthdays before and she thought he had forgotten.
He said, “Please ask Miss James to come to my study at three o’clock. Tell her I have a great deal to discuss with her.”
“Yes, Father.” She waited, head bowed again until he dismissed her.
His eyes narrowed speculatively as she walked to the door. He was pleased with his plan, he could unburden himself of her very satisfactorily, and add the gloss of a title to the Harrison name, but he knew he would need some help. Picking up the phone he called Mrs. Brice Leland, one of San Francisco’s grandest matrons, told her he needed her help, and was invited to stop by to take afternoon tea. He explained his problem to her: a difficult, unsociable daughter. He had done his best to bring her up properly but without a mother she knew how hard it had been. Francesca was a shy girl and now that she was eighteen she must be brought out into society. She needed a woman’s touch….
Mrs. Brice Leland smiled, thrilled to be of help, thinking of the opportunities it would offer to present her own eligible nieces to the oh-so-rich Harmon Harrison, still a widower after ten years, though not for want of San Francisco’s young ladies trying.
And later that day Miss James told Francie she was to make her debut in society.
“But why?” she gasped, bewildered. “I don’t know a single member of San Francisco society. What do they care about me?”
“It is your father’s wish,” the governess replied, leafing through the lists of dressmakers, hairdressers, shoe and glovemakers, the dance academy and deportment classes Mrs. Brice Leland had given her. “Your father is planning to give a ball for you in two months time. We must begin immediately.”
The following day Francie was swept off to the ultrasmart City of Paris store to be outfitted from head to toe for every conceivable social occasion. On Mrs. Brice Leland’s instructions, she bought daytime skirts of light wool with matching tailored jackets, ruffled lace blouses and silk afternoon dresses, chiffon tea gowns and a beautiful lace ball gown with a velvet opera cape. Each outfit had matching shoes, stockings, and gloves and the appropriate accessories—a ruffled parasol, a flowered straw hat, a plumed hair ornament. All her life she had worn plain, starched cotton and drab woolens and it was intoxicating to feel the swirl of beribboned taffeta petticoats and the strangeness of the narrow, pointed satin