Bigger Games Afoot in High Tea

House of Montague:

Letter correspondence from Luciana Montague: 

28 September 1892

Most Holy Friar Lawrence,

Thank you for all of your help and recent arrangements.  As you might know, being Lady Montague’s only female companion in a house overwhelmed with men is exciting and tedious all at once. Of course, there are the servant girls that she can gossip with, but lacking any daughters it’s become my role to participate in society and be up close with all of these well to do people. At first I worried I wouldn’t fit in with my aunt and uncle’s society, especially when I’m not truly their niece but rather a distant cousin. Parties nearly every night, wonderful dining, and dancing filled with some of the gaudiest costumes I’ve ever seen— it’s all I can do to hide my country roots and blend in with respectable New York society.

I keep waiting for one of the ladies of the other houses to point out another flaw.  Lady Montegue keeps me on my toes, always fixing my posture, telling me to keep my neck high and my shoulders down. “Don’t talk to the beggars in the street, Luciana” She’ll say, or “Be coy, my dear. Talk only to those who can help business.”

I always wonder if I’m fully aware of the “business.” It’s true that my guardians have inquired a large amount of money through my uncle’s business, but it seems there are bigger games afoot. Lady Capulet pretends to ignore us whenever we are at the same festivity. I’m not allowed to dance or talk to that attractive and fiery man they call Tybalt, and he’s always glaring at my cousin whenever they pass in the streets. Not that Romeo ever notices. He’s far too concerned with capturing the attention of whatever young woman has passed him in the street that day. I’ve heard him talk of the fair, the tempestuous, the shy, the lithe, the adorned and whatever other virtuous quality a man could ever fathom.

Although I struggle to fit in sometimes, I truly do want to be a part of this “good society.” I do not wish to be associated with, nor return to, the pauper life that I lived before stepping into this elegant realm of fashion.  And so I’ll continue to do my best to pick up the etiquette I’ve failed to learn in my earlier years.  If I am to help the Montague’s and further help myself to find a comfortable future I must remind myself  “Manners are made up of trivialities of deportment which can be easily learned if one does not happen to know them.  Manner is personality—the outward manifestation of one’s innate character and attitude toward life.” Or at least it should be.

In order to introduce me to the “right” friends and associates, Lady Montegue has frequently served afternoon tea, which is possibly the most complex ritual of formality and etiquette. It can range from a simple “Low Tea” of scones, sandwiches which she calls “savories,” sweets, and desserts. I’ve been told this is also known as “Full Tea.” Or the affair can be something of a three ring circus for the servants, bustling in and out with meats, cheeses, butter, bread, sandwiches, scones, and desserts. This is what’s known as “High Tea.”

And even as the guests arrive there is more formality and iron-clad etiquette. Any lady who wishes to be included “in society” must first leave her printed calling card before making a visit. The woman’s footman must then present it to the servant of the house. If the corner is turned down, it means the lady has delivered the card in person. The lady of the estate must then leave her own card in return within seven to ten days. As far as I can tell, this frivolity is a means of testing the social temperature before entering the water. Next follows the exchange of formal calls. As my lady says “you cannot invite people to our house (however often I may have met them elsewhere) until you first call on them in a formal manner and they return your visit.” She says it’s a safeguard against undesirable acquaintances. And of course, if she doesn’t wish to continue the friendship, she discontinues calling and no further advances are made. However it is impolite and monstrous to fail to return a call in the first instance.

It’s a wonder I keep all of this straight; but fashion demands that I do.

Until I pen again,

Luciana

A Night at the Opera

House of Capulet:

An entry from the diary of Isabella Capulet:

Monday, 26 September 1892

Despite the fact that I spent literally hours getting dressed tonight and had to be sewn into my slightly large pink gown--not to mention all of the struggles involved with getting my rebellious strands of hair to stay where they belong--I did not enjoy myself tonight.  I had been planning on going to my first Italian opera for months with Lady Capulet and the rest, but it ended in complete disaster.  I seemed to be the only one who had been cruelly disappointed in the performance; but to be fair, all I wanted to do the entire time was talk and dance.  I had a million things to say and look at.  There were diamonds everywhere.  I felt that everyone would be excited and lively, but instead everyone was as solemn as a funeral.  It was horribly depressing.  I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone would want to devote time and energy to something as cruelly tragic as an Italian opera when there are such things as balls, fashion, and men in this world.  Apparently Juliet would.  She cried for about the entire second half of the opera and refused to even explain to me why on Earth she was doing so.  If Rosaline hadn't been there to write little notes to and make faces at Gregory and Lord Capulet with (both looked content, but mainly because they were getting much needed sleep), I should have died of boredom.  The costumes were really exquisite though.  I wish it wasn't so taboo to be a seamstress.

She'll not be hit with Cupid's arrow. She hath Diane's wit

House of Capulet:
From a correspondence by Rosaline Capulet:

 23 September 1892

My dearest Mariana:

When I woke up this morning and saw the heaven's descending with ribbons of light flashing about, I thought that maybe on this day I would be able to forgo any suitors and read until my heart's content. I would be able to sit through my French, dance, and drawing lessons without the hindering annoyance of an afternoon filled with empty compliments and nauseating cologne. I was pleased with the idea of my reading in the afternoon light, before tea that is, and passing that time in devout study of the Bible. Alas, the heaven's ceased their downpour and so my mother will get her way. I will have to present myself to whatever suitor she has arranged for me. (It's not that they won't readily come on their own, those men are just not usually up to her caliber, as she intends for me to wed well.) It is never an adventure with these men from New York. I ride in their phaetons or sit in the drawing room and cross stitch while they read to me. It is always some monotonous poetry drivel though never something clever like Utopia. I find their conversations to be dull and unimaginable. Who wants to sit and smile politely while listening to a story about a new suit made in that adoring Parisian style? I would much rather discuss the state of the union or debate an interesting find within Plato's Republic. Although I ought not to have read that seeing as I am a lady, or so Juliet, my cousin, reminded me. She was just jealous that I found it within the library first.

Speaking of ill suited suitors, I hope that I do not run into that childish Romeo today. Yesterday he flattered me for half an hour as I was on my way to confession. He sang praise to my beauty and dress, but I find the impertinence galling to say the least. Beauty is not the only thing that matters. Alas, I must leave, my first suitor has arrived.

Yours faithfully,
Rosaline