Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [40]
Still, there was hardly time to worry; her days were too full. She dashed nervously between fittings and deportment classes, where she was taught how to sit like a lady with her ankles crossed and feet tucked in, how to use a fan, and how to walk in a dress with a train. She learned the proper ritual of a ladies’ tea party and how to converse politely at the dinner table, and at the dance classes she learned how to waltz and polka. After six weeks she was considered ready and was summoned to tea to meet the society ladies who had advised her father.
Wearing a blue silk georgette tea gown that exactly matched her eyes she trailed reluctantly down the big oak staircase toward her father’s study, wondering for the hundredth time why, after all these years of ignoring her he now seemed determined she should become a star of San Francisco society. She hesitated outside his door with the old familiar feeling of foreboding. Then, with a sigh, she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and knocked.
“Enter,” he said, and her heart sank to the soles of her new kid shoes as she obeyed.
His critical gaze swept her from head to foot. “Turn around,” he commanded, and she swung around obediently. “For once you look presentable,” he said finally. “You will thank Mrs. Brice Leland for her help and you will behave like a lady. I expect you to be a credit to the Harrisons. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Yes, Papa.”
“Then you may go.”
She felt his critical eyes watching her as she walked away and heard his exasperated sigh as she tripped nervously.
“For God’s sake, Francesca, haven’t they taught you to walk like a lady?” he exclaimed angrily.
“Yes, Papa,” she murmured again, biting her lip, convinced more than ever that she would make a fool of herself at this tea party.
Mrs. Brice Leland’s home was an Italian-style stone palace a couple of blocks away on California Street between Mason and Taylor. Inside was dark with lots of carved oak paneling, and satin and gilt Louis XIV furniture and hundreds of potted palms. Half a dozen ladies perched on small overstuffed brocade chairs around their hostess, presiding like a queen over the silver teapot. Mrs. Brice Leland was a bosomy lady, regal in purple lace and her pink “afternoon” diamonds. She possessed much larger and grander diamonds for evenings, which she claimed were inherited from her ancestors, though everyone suspected that, like her husband, she hadn’t possessed beans—let alone diamonds—until he’d made a killing in gold stocks. But they were used to glossing over pedigrees—as long as there was enough money in the bank to cover the lie. The ladies wore elaborate silk tea gowns sparkling with jewels, and there was a buzz of genteel laughter and conversation as they sipped China tea from fragile Wedgwood cups and nibbled delicacies prepared by the French chef. When the butler announced Francie they swung around, staring at her, their feathered hats quivering like a flock of birds.
Mrs. Brice Leland smiled and said in a loud whisper, “Well, well, the skeleton in the Harrison closet.” Putting her lorgnette to her eye she looked the waiting Francie up and down. “And a rather pretty skeleton at that,” she acknowledged.
“Come here, girl,” she called, waving an imperious arm and frowning as Francie tripped over the fringed Turkish rug. She introduced her to the ladies and said, “Sit here by me, Francesca, we would like to get to know you a little. After all, your father asked us to help him and we have done our best. I must say you look a credit to the Harrison name and I shall tell your father so.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Francie blushed, clutching her cup and saucer and refusing a wafer-thin cucumber sandwich because she was afraid she might drop it, and besides she was so nervous she knew it would