Ernestine looked up from her embroidery. “The week after next is considered the first week of the Season, these days. And by the following week, the social whirl is in full swing.”
Frederick caught Stacie’s gaze. “If you want to host more than one musical evening during this Season, then for my money, we need to move quickly and decide on a night in the coming week. The major hostesses—most likely all those you’ll wish to invite—will already be in town, and the academics and aficionados I believe we should invite will also likely be here—some bury themselves during the height of the Season.”
Stacie had to acknowledge his point, yet… “Choosing a date in the upcoming week—with less than a week’s notice—”
“Will pique people’s curiosity,” Ernestine interjected. When both Stacie and Frederick looked at her, she smiled and said, “Such an invitation would certainly pique mine. Every hostess worth her salt knows that less than a week’s notice for an evening event at this time of year is virtually guaranteed to ensure a poor showing. Yet the invitation will be coming from you, Stacie, and all the ton’s ladies know you’ve grown up in the very heart of the ton, so why would you do such a thing? If it’s not a novice’s mistake but a deliberate act…?”
Nonplussed, Stacie widened her eyes, inviting an answer.
Ernestine’s smile deepened. “Obviously, it must be because you’re absolutely assured of a full house, and you’re not concerned that some might not answer the call.” Ernestine looked down at her stitchery. “It has always seemed to me that, within the ton, confidence in a certain outcome—or at least giving the appearance of such—is the best guarantee that that outcome will, in fact, be achieved.”
Frederick nodded. “A shrewd observation. So”—he looked at Stacie—“the only question is which night will suit us best.”
Stacie rose and walked to her writing desk. She picked up the stack of invitations resting on one corner, extracted those pertaining to the coming week, left the others on the desk, and returned to her chair. Holding out her hand for Frederick’s list, she sat and compared his list with her invitations. Eventually, she said, “I have a few additional invitations for those
evenings, but it looks like Wednesday will be our best option. Almack’s, such as it is, won’t hold its first ball until the week after.” She tipped her head, considering the spread of invitations before her. “Quite possibly out of habit, most hostesses have avoided scheduling their evening events on Wednesday.”
Frederick nodded decisively. “Wednesday will work. Our three protégés will have their clothes and, I’m sure, their pieces polished to perfection by then.”
“If you write your invitations today and send them via footmen rather than the post,” Ernestine said, “then I see no reason the majority of your invitees won’t attend. Curiosity alone will draw them to the door.”
Stacie bit her lip. “How many do you think we can fit?”
A discussion ensued, resulting in Frederick finally agreeing to a limit of one hundred and fifty guests. “We can seat close to a hundred in the music room alone,” Stacie pointed out. “And although we’ll invite one hundred and fifty, I doubt all will come.”
“Oh, I think you should err on the side of caution, dear,” Ernestine said. “Especially in the catering. If you invite one hundred and fifty, then assume all will cross the threshold. Yet I do take your point—if we seat ninety in the music room, others will remain seated in the drawing room and morning room, and still others will stand around the walls, which creates a feeling of earnestness, don’t you think?”
She had to agree. “Very well—one hundred and fifty guests. So who should they be?”
They all had people to suggest, for varying reasons. Stacie moved to her desk, sat, assembled paper and pen, and duly noted all the names and addresses.
It took nearly an hour to settle on their guest list, one including the most influential hostesses as well as the majority of the recognized grandes dames and, at Stacie and Ernestine’s insistence, several families they knew who were hoping to puff off young ladies that Season. “They,” Stacie maintained, “the mamas and young ladies all, chatter so much to each other that, as a group, they are the most likely to spread word of our evening as an event—as well as enthusing over the caliber of our young musicians—far and wide throughout the ton.”
Frederick reacted to that comment with a sour look, but made no protest. As he’d rattled off a string of names of gentlemen influential in the world of music, all of whom Stacie had put on the list, he had no grounds for complaint.
She had also included Protheroe and the governors of St Martin-in-the-Fields. “To make sure they know we appreciate the quality of the graduates the music school produces.”
With Stacie’s family and close connections, including the powerful Cynster ladies, all on the list, they had had to cull some of the lesser hostesses to trim the numbers to the desired one hundred and fifty.
Finally, she declared, “With our guest list agreed, we need to decide on the wording of the invitation.” She arched a brow at Frederick. “Do you wish to be listed as co-host or…?”
He shook his head. “Not co-host.” He tapped his fingers on the chair’s arm, then suggested, “List the program on the reverse of the card.”
She envisioned that, then, lips curving, nodded and reached for a fresh sheet of paper. Frederick recited the program as agreed with their three protégés, then paused.
Pen poised, Stacie looked at him.
But it was Ernestine who said, “We should list you with your formal title—Frederick, Marquess of Albury. Anything less will be…well, underplaying your hand, so to speak.”
Stacie tried to read what was going on behind Frederick’s impassive countenance, but failed.
However, after a moment, he met her eyes and inclined his head in agreement. “And I’ll be playing Robert Schumann’s ‘Fantasie in C Major. Opus Seventeen.’ That will fill half an hour, which is the longest we should stretch our guests’ patience and their ability to sit still.”
She hid a smile; given the quality of his playing, she doubted they would hear a pin drop, let alone a rustle.
He went on, “So timewise, we start with Brandon, and he’ll play for about fifteen minutes. Be sure to list a short interval between his performance and that of the string duo, but it should stretch to no more than three minutes. Then Phillip and Brandon will take a few minutes to settle their instruments, plus another ten or so minutes of playing. After that, list another short interval—that one should be a full five minutes to give the audience time to exchange views on our three protégés’ performances—”
“And build expectation and anticipation for your performance,” Ernestine put in.