A Cautionary List of Gentlemen to Avoid (And the Very Good Reasons Why We Don’t)
In which Lucine advises caution, and readers immediately disregard it.
In which Lucine advises caution, and readers immediately disregard it.
It is a truth universally acknowledged — and universally ignored — that one should avoid certain types of gentlemen at all costs.
Yet here we are: hearts bruised, reputations in tatters, and diaries suspiciously tear-stained.
In the spirit of public service (and not at all from personal experience, mind you), I offer the following advisory:
1. The Poet Who Lives Entirely on Credit
Warning Signs: Quoted Byron within five minutes. No discernible means of income.
Why You’ll Fall Anyway: He wrote a sonnet about the way you pour tea.
2. The Brooding One with a Mysterious Past
Warning Signs: Owns more horses than shirts. Cannot explain where he was between the hours of midnight and four.
Why You’ll Fall Anyway: You are certain, certain, that your affection will heal his tragic soul. (Spoiler: It will not.)
3. The Dashing Officer
Warning Signs: Terribly handsome in uniform. Missing from half the events he promises to attend. Smells faintly of betrayal.
Why You’ll Fall Anyway: You, too, are not immune to a well-tied cravat and tales of valor.
4. The Man Who Is Technically Betrothed to Someone Else
Warning Signs: His fiancée is mentioned only in passing, usually after two glasses of claret.
Why You’ll Fall Anyway: “It’s complicated.” (It is not. It is disastrously simple.)
5. The Intellectual Who Thinks You’re "An Exception Among Your Sex"
Warning Signs: Commends your wit as if it’s a delightful novelty. Brings up Plato at parties.
Why You’ll Fall Anyway: You laugh, thinking he’s merely awkward. He is not. He is deeply insufferable.
In conclusion, dear reader, I urge you: beware.
And if you cannot beware — at least be well-dressed for your downfall.
There is a great deal of dignity to be salvaged in looking exquisite while making questionable choices.
Faithfully, if not sensibly,
Miss L. E. Watson
Composed on the 26th of April, 1835, whilst awaiting a reply that never came.
The Strategic Deployment of Fans (And Other Weapons of Courtship)
(A Treatise on Flirtation, Subtlety, and Blunt Force Charm)
(A Treatise on Flirtation, Subtlety, and Blunt Force Charm)
Once, a fan was a simple accessory.
Now, it is a battle standard, a communication device, and, in extreme cases, a lethal weapon.
Consider:
A slow wave: Come hither, if you dare.
A quick snap closed: You have precisely three seconds to explain yourself.
A fan flutter against the bosom: I might swoon. But not for you, sir.
The Codex of the Fan:
(Compiled by Anonymous Ladies of Discretion and Great Mischief)
Covering one’s face entirely = I see someone at this party I should not like to see me.
Peeking over the top = I see someone I would very much like to see me.
Dropping the fan deliberately = This is an ambush. Prepare yourself accordingly.
Fanning vigorously in one’s suitor’s direction = You are tiresome and also probably sweating.
Slowly tapping the chin with the closed fan = Considering your offer of marriage. Outcome: grim.
Historical Fan Offenses:
The Dual-Engagement Debacle:
A young lady dropped her fan at the feet of two different gentlemen within the same hour.
Both proposed.
(She accepted neither, citing “emotional exhaustion.”)The Accidental Duel Incident:
One careless flick of a fan led to two gentlemen believing they had been promised marriage.
Swords were drawn.
The lady in question married a third man entirely.The “Mistook the Fan Flutter for Indigestion” Scandal:
Tragic. Hilarious. Still whispered about in Charleston.
Other Weapons of Courtship (Secondary Class):
Handkerchief: Best if dropped dramatically. Bonus points if scented with heartbreak.
Glove: If tossed, marriage proposals must follow. (Or lawsuits.)
Eyebrow Raise: Lethal if executed with precision.
In Conclusion:
The next time you see a lady with a fan, know this:
She is not cooling herself.
She is declaring war.
(And heaven help you if you do not understand the terms.)
Drafted on the 23rd of April, 1835, after precisely three too many glances across a ballroom.
Musings on Love Letters (and the Scoundrels Who Write Them)
Ink fades. Scandal does not.
Ink fades. Scandal does not.
There is no craft so deceptively charming — nor so treacherous — as the writing of love letters.
In my experience (and I confess it is extensive), a man with a pen is a dangerous creature.
He may commit all manner of affection to paper — sighs, sonnets, illicit confessions — without the slightest intention of honoring a single word beyond the sealing of the envelope.
Beware, dear reader, of the following signs:
Excessive metaphors involving stars, seas, and eternal devotion: If he must cross oceans for you, why has he not yet crossed the parlor floor?
References to your incomparable beauty: Flattery ages like cream on a summer's day. Beware the man who praises your eyelashes with more ardor than your mind.
Unsealed letters: A gentleman who entrusts declarations of undying love without the courtesy of a proper seal is either reckless or calculating — and neither bodes well.
Permit me to suggest the correct course of action upon receiving such a letter:
Read it twice.
Smile faintly.
Place it carefully into the fire.
If the writer was sincere, he will arrive in person.
If he was merely amusing himself, let him have the ashes.
As for me, I have retained precisely two letters:
One, because it was penned with such wit I could not bear to destroy it.
And the other, because the author spelled my name incorrectly — and I find that sort of insult too delightful to burn.
(Scoundrels, after all, are far more entertaining when properly archived.)
Yours, Most Faithfully and in Fury, Miss Lucine Elizabeth Watson
Composed on the 19th of April, 1835, drowning in a sea of torn paper, ink stains, and rather less dignity than a lady should like to acknowledge.
The Parlour Door Opens
Proof of Life, at long last.
A most thrilling parcel arrived this morning. Not a love letter (though one can always hope), but something altogether more daring—a proof. Bound, printed, and quite real, A Dramatic Debut now sits atop my writing desk, its ink still smelling of potential and its pages filled with secrets.
The moment felt like a scene from one of my own stories: heart racing, fingers trembling, and the distinct impression that something long imagined had finally stepped into the light…
It is not yet in its final dress—no embroidery, no gilded trim—but it is real. Tangible. Held in the palm like a promise.
To those who have written kind letters, who have whispered encouragement at gatherings, who have said “I see myself here”—this volume is for you. And to those who still wonder if they might ever belong in stories such as these, I say: the parlour door is open. Come in. Sit down. The tea is hot and the tales have only just begun.
Yours (most dramatically),
Miss Lucine Elizabeth Watson
Authoress, Observer, Chronicler of Affairs (Scandalous and Otherwise)
Penned — if one may call it that — on the 14th of April, 1825, whilst fending off unsolicited advice, balancing a fourth cup of sherry, and questioning every decision that led to this moment.