The Selection. God, I never wanted to hear about that blasted excuse of a "contest" again. Set up by his majesty, the Prince Regent, the Season had been suspended. In place of it, the nation's most eligible bachelors would take part in what's known as The Selection. The Selection is where ten of the most eligible young ladies come together to "compete" for the bachelor's hand in marriage. Of course it was not discussed in polite society in such terms, but that's what it was essentially- women vying for the attention and approval of one man, in hopes that he might choose her.
This profoundly insulting ritual was invented for two reasons. First, it allowed men to survey and assess the most beautiful women in the country without having to engage in the exhausting endeavour of courtship. It gave them more time to get to know the women on a person basis and figure out which one he liked above the rest. Second, it was for the entertainment of the rest of the nation. Queen Charlotte and the Prince Regent loved reading tabloids and pamphlets about the many scandals occurring in such an affair. A lady's reputation could be destroyed by the mere printing of a magazine. It was immensely amusing for the rest of society- from all walks of life- to read.
Well, everyone except myself.
From the day I was born, both my parents were adamant that I might take part in The Selection. Being selected, as it were, was no easy feat. The lady in question must come from a highly respectable- and rich- English family; so those from Scotland and Ireland were out. Second in question was her birth-rank and even more importantly, her beauty. She must be the eldest daughter in the family and very striking; thus, anyone second born or deemed "ugly" was out. Third, she must have an impeccable reputation and impeachable sexual virtue; so anyone already de-flowered, even if the end result was not pregnancy, was out. Education or accomplishments were unimportant. We were supposed to be flowers, ornaments to which society- and the bachelor himself- could ogle at.
Being selected was one of, if not the, greatest honour for a young lady; again, according to society. Even if you were not picked to be the bachelor's bride, it was an opportunity to showcase yourself to the other wealthy unattached men in England. Taking part in the Selection was not any easier for men, although their reputations- so long as it was not criminal- was not questioned. He had to come from a family connected to royalty, or at least presented in court. He had to be extremely rich and fathered no bastard children beforehand. He must be college educated, here meaning at Oxford or Cambridge. And he had to have a letter of recommendation from the Prince Regent himself; his mother could not give men references, only ladies.
If a man succeeds in all these categories, and he is the heir to his father's estate, then he might apply to take part in the procedure. His application would be reviewed by Parliament and the Church. If they gave their stamps of approval, then he would be moved to Cornwall Terrace, where ten young ladies would be brought to live with him- in separate locked apartments of their own, naturally. Our parents applied on behalf of their daughters, and applications started once they were born. The daughters had very little say in the matter, if any at all. From our perspective, you were suddenly dropped off at this large house in the middle of London one day, where a stranger inside judged your worth as a women and potential future wife. The whole thing is unbearable if you ask me.
My parents wanted me to take part in The Selection, and they wanted me to win. But my father, Viscount Edmund Bridgerton, was an intelligent man. He realized from reading all the old pamphlets and gossip papers that all the ladies in previous Selections were remarkably similar, and dreadfully dull. He planned to get around this, to make me stand apart from the rest, by sending me to be educated abroad. And just educated- formally educated. I was to receive the same lessons in Latin, grammar, languages, mathematics, formal logic, and the classics as my brothers. It was unheard of for a girl at that time, but he saw it as his secret weapon.
What he, and my dubious mother, hadn't banked on was my masters bringing me into some very particular philosophical circles in Germany and Vienna. I received a very Continental moral education; the likes of which they were not expecting. It turned me into what the British considered a "prude", even for their high moral standings for women. My mother was so horrified in fact, that after my father died in 1809, she summoned me back to London immediately and stopped all my education. It didn't matter though; the damage was done. I was a scholar, an academic and a proud one at that. But even more shocking, I disliked the whole idea of The Selection and made my thoughts well known. My mother and brother did their best to hide my indignation, keeping me away from the rest of London society. But that could only work for so long, as they would soon come to realize. I wasn't surprised when the letter arrived with the King's seal that spring day, though I knew they were making a mistake in selecting me for this annual farce.
I didn't even know who the bachelor in question was, but I knew come to hell or high water, he would NOT be my husband.
London, 1813:
"No. My answer is no." "And I'm telling you, Daphne, you have NO choice in the matter!" Mother slammed the royal parchment down onto Anthony's desk. He, Mother, and I had been arguing for what felt like hours now, with all our siblings eagerly listening on the other side of the door of course. Mother couldn't have looked harder or more irate at me.
"After all we did for you…. How can you be so selfish?!" "This isn't selfishness, Mother; the exact opposite, in fact. How can you expect me to marry a man who's debauched enough to partake is such a denigrating affair? Ten fine young ladies are being used as means to an end- HIS end! What about us? Where's the respect and amiability for us? We are the first-born daughters of this country!" I shouted back. Mother's back stiffened, her lips pursing tightly together. Anthony, who had been silently listening to our screaming back and forth, leaned up against the side of his desk with his arms crossed. His head had been down but was now tilting up in my direction.
"This isn't just about you, sister. Think about Eloise, Francesca, and Hyacinth; think what it will do to their future prospects if you reject his majesty's invitation. No lady has ever turned down taking part in The Selection before. Can you imagine the shame such a thing would bring to our family?" I shot my eldest brother a sharp glare. "So I am to subject myself to his base desires for the sake of the family?" "Daphne Bridgerton!" Mother scolded and I rolled my eyes. "That's what this is, Mother! It's nothing more than a glorified beauty contest, only the prize is marriage to a rack, a degenerate!" "How dare you?! You don't even know who the gentleman is this year!" "I don't need to! Any man who would even think of applying is not worthy of even making our acquaintance, let alone getting to know."
"Actually, he's an old college friend of mine- the gent this year" Anthony rubbed his chin ponderingly. Mother and I stopped momentarily to look at him before glaring daggers at one another again. "I don't care how against the idea you are. You WILL be participating in this year's Selection. This is what your father and I have always dreamed of for you." "And what about what I want? I am an end in myself too; I am a rational person who can reasonably assess the situation and determine that it's degrading to me," I fired back with venom. Mother looked like she was ready to strangle me.
"Would you stop with all that "rationality" nonsense?! You are a woman, Daphne!" "I am a person first and foremost!" My forefinger pointed inward to my chest. Mother's voice raised even higher. "But you are also a woman! And we over here don't appreciate our ladies being too learned. I don't what possessed your father to send you abroad, but you'd better get all of those new-fangled philosophies out of your head before April. You have one month to prepare for meeting the duke, and he'll care a lot more how your head looks than what's inside of it."
My fingers twitched, my face scorned in anger. I hated this; I hated all of this. What did they expect from me? To learn what the duke- I guess this year's candidate was a duke- likes and try my best to present as such? What sort of sick game was that?! Was it so wrong to want to marry for love? Like real, genuine, completely moral and faithful love? Where was his respect for me in all this? How am I to put him first, when that goes everything I've learned, everything my masters taught me? No, I am a rational agent in my own right; I can and WILL decide for myself my own fate. If I ever marry someone, it will be because it is the right thing to do- the natural thing to do. To hell with this! I'm not simply a pawn in somebody else's game. Even if I'm forced to go live in Cornwall Terrace this spring, it won't change my mind. I'm not going to bend-over backwards to try and get him to fancy me, especially at the expense of other women.
There will be nine other gorgeous young ladies for him to pick and choose from; there's no reason why he should give two thoughts about me.