Summary
In the blood-orange dusk of a Montana that might as well be mythic, Frederica Calhoun—lariat virtuoso, daughter of dust and sage—meets the porcelain illusion named Lord Cecil Grosvenor, an Englishman who believes frontiers exist only to be bought. Between hoof-beats and silver cutlery, a courtship sparks: she teaches him the hieroglyphics of horizon, he teaches her the trembling etiquette of a teacup. Betrothal ferries them to Manhattan’s velvet corrals where Redfern gowns corset her wildness and afternoon tea calcifies into social marble. Yet the metamorphosis that gilds Frederica corrodes Cecil; bored entitlement sends him backsliding into chorus-girl wings and champagne corridors. On the night of the French Ball, disguised in masculine silhouette—top-hat, starched shirtfront, dangerous smirk—she stalks proof and witnesses her fiancé entwined with a Broadway nymph. The sting of betrayal is almost eclipsed by the delicious irony: jealous Cecil now suspects this “strange young man” of moving in on his paramour. One hinge-squeak of a door later, the sister-in-law-to-be spies the “male intruder,” scandal flares, and Frederica, still in waistcoat and audacity, confesses she is the culprit. Outrage from the unfaithful lord detonates the engagement; she thanks him for the liberation, circles back to the steadfast Montana cowboy who always knew a fork is just a fork, and rides off into a future measured not by titles but by truth.
Synopsis
That a fork was ever meant for anything but spearing bread never dawned on Frederica Calhoun until the arrival at her father's big Montana ranch of Lord Cecil Grosvenor, a prospective buyer. He opened her eyes to an hitherto undreamed of world of refinement and good form, and she in turn appealed to his imagination by her crack riding, her beautiful lariat dances which the cowboys had taught her, and her unfailing sweet disposition and sunny bubbling good spirits. But on their betrothal, with its subsequent visit to Lord Grosvenor's sister, a New York society woman the idyll showed a flaw. Redfern gowns, afternoon teas and the formal social routine of the patrician Knickerbockers did wonders for Frederica, transforming the cocoon into a butterfly. But to Grosvenor it was demoralizing, and word of his escapades reached Frederica's ears. The night of the French Ball she borrowed a suit of men's evening clothes and hid by a stage door where with her own eyes she saw her fiancé come out with the dashing show girl with whom his name had been connected. Indeed, Frederica's "young man" makeup was so complete that Grosvenor grew jealous when Frederica eyed his companion so straight and hard. The fatal breach was widened when Frederica's prospective sister-in-law peeked into her room after her return and deceived as her brother had been, felt it her duty to inform him she had seen "a man." This Frederica spiritedly admitted, inasmuch as the "man" was none other than herself, but Grosvenor presumed to wax furious, and the absurdity of such a stand disgusted her and she tossed the Englishman over. As a matter of fact, she was glad of the excuse, for she had all the time been playing straight with him only at the expense of holding off an old Montana sweetheart who had come to New York and made good. Her hands free, Frederica returned to a man whose word she knew was good as his bond, and, thanking her stars she had learned in time that a man was not to be judged by the way he handled a fork.
Review Excerpt
"
Picture, if you can, a celluloid valentine shot through with gun-smoke and giggles—Nearly a Lady is that improbable artifact where the open range high-fives the drawing room, and the handshake leaves both parties reeling.
Myrtle Stedman’s Frederica enters framed against a sky so vast it feels like a dare. She flings a lariat the way Boticelli’s Venus flings hair: every twirl an assertion that physics can be seduced. The camera, star-struck, lingers on the rope’s silvered arc—an omen that deco..."
