Foreword
When you are born in the bosom of an aristocratic or wealthy family, and you have the characteristic of being female, then your destiny is inevitably sealed. You cease to be a unique and valuable human being, to become an object used as a bargaining chip and future adornment of some Lord's home.
Your life is transformed into a huge set of rules and imposed restrictions. Your every gesture, movement, choice and thought is controlled.
You lose the power of choice; you are told how to speak and what to say, what to wear and on what occasion, how much to eat and how much you are allowed to eat. You are also imposed an instrument with which you must demonstrate your musical talent and, of course, what books you will read and how much you will enjoy knitting and mending.
Apart from all this, and getting to the crux of the matter, it is made clear to you as a child that your destiny will be to be a good and obedient wife, as well as a devoted mother; not forgetting that your duty is to give birth to at least one boy.
But, of course, who you will marry, when and why, are not questions you have the right to try to answer.
Perhaps, after reading all this, you think nothing could look or be worse. And I wish it could too. Unfortunately, that is not the case. For the really bad thing, comes the day when a little lady must face her dreaded presentation in society.
There she will find barbarism in its maximum splendor: The nobility. Which is a jungle and its members are wild animals. Each one, belonging to their own species, have an unspoken rule in common: they cannot mix and you must never dare to transgress this rule.
So, if you are reading these lines and you are a future debutante, I beg you to read the following list carefully. And I recommend identifying yourself immediately in a pack, since a lone prey will soon be a hunted and, of course, devoured prey.
In a typical social season, there are many different kinds of single ladies. Each and every one of them swarm through the quirky London soirees, exhibiting themselves as merchandise in the marriage market:
The beauties: women of incomparable beauty. Proclaimed by the elite as an absolute social success and besieged by eager gentlemen.
The adequates: Ladies with different levels of beauty, but with a common factor: excellent status, unimpeachable pedigree and acceptable fortunes.
The heiresses: Women who are not outstanding in beauty, or of tolerable appearance. But with a considerable factor in their favor, an incredible dowry. Enormous enough to compensate for any lack.
The unlucky ones: Women of beautiful appearance, however, rejected for various reasons. For lack of dowry, not having a surname or important connections, or being marked by a scandal of their own or indirectly.
The excluded: Ladies of ordinary and correct physical appearance. However, they are excluded for having some characteristic not accepted by the exclusive society. Whether these are high age, personality or origin.
Finally and after all of them, we arrive at the true group of ladies rejected and set aside by the aristocracy:
The simply too ugly: ladies considered so ugly that no surname or promise of fortune is enough to encourage the most desperate gentleman to even address her.
To this sad and difficult group belongs the one who writes. And this manual will teach you how to be ugly and survive a social season.
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London, October 1815.
The carriage of the Marquis of Garden stopped with a jolt in front of the majestic mansion of the Dukes of Malloren.
As its occupants awaited their turn to alight, the father of the family looked critically at his two daughters.
He could almost hear the jumble of thoughts that crossed their minds and were reflected on their little faces. Thoughts that were as different and opposite, as were their looks and personalities.
Sighing resignedly, he adjusted the cufflinks of his jacket and looked at his eldest daughter. She was staring at his white hands, which he had not yet covered with his gloves. In disbelief, he thought that he did not understand how any gentleman could appreciate all the virtues that his sweet daughter had. And that, whether or not he saw them with the eyes of a self"sacrificing and loving father, they were still evident.
To the Marquis, his pretty Catherine was a wonderful and virtuous being. She was affectionate, noble and generous. She was a perfect lady. It annoyed him that not one of the dunces who made up his society was capable of seeing beyond her perhaps imperfect appearance.
On the other hand, his youngest daughter, Abigail, who at that moment was shaking her leg impatiently, worried him greatly. The young girl presented an unflattering appearance, as usual. An image she insisted on projecting, knowing it was not the true one. But he had decided to tackle one problem at a time, or he would eventually faint. He would deal with Catherine first and then see what to do about the youngest.
Although his young wife, whom he had married eight years earlier, should be taking care of everything concerning the social inclusion of his daughters, this was not the case, as Melissa had given up early, claiming that her daughters were impossible and a hopeless failure.
So, there he was, touring the London drawing rooms and dragging his reluctant daughters to every social event. He knew he could confine himself to choosing a gentleman of his liking and arranging an arranged union. However, he was not to do so, for he had promised his first wife on his deathbed that he would see to the happiness of his daughters. And he swore to his beloved Susan that he would see to it that the girls married of their own free will.
Weightily, he shook his head, asking heaven why such a fate had befallen him. He loved his little girls, but, at times, the situation threatened to unhinge him. He was too old for this sort of thing; sometimes he just wanted to stay at home, enjoy his brandy and read a good book.