Putting aside Lady Ashford’s peculiarity at the tea party, I check with my parents for days I can have Trissy over and then send her an overnight letter with the options.

That doesn’t take up my whole evening, so I spend time working on the design for Iris’s dress. By now, I’ve settled on the cream fabric, liking how purple shows up on it. She’s a very vibrant person and her dress should reflect that. While I don’t have anything set in stone just yet, I have a few different iris patterns I’ve practised on handkerchiefs and I think I’ll use one or more of them.

Tuesday brings me back into my usual routine, but there’s no walk with Cyril around the garden. However, I end up taking a walk after breakfast and lunch anyway, missing my friends. Missing all those little moments we spent together.

Trissy’s reply comes with the evening post, so I pass on which date works best for her to my parents. I mean, it’s just going to be the two of us, no need to arrange anything grand, but they’d like to greet her and make sure our hospitality meets the necessary standard. An inescapable aspect of being nobility.

The visit itself will be Sunday brunch, and I have called it a flower viewing rather than a tea party. That’s a bit unusual, but I like the sound of it better and I think it will put her at ease, make it seem like we’re doing something—there’s a lot of pressure to talk if it’s just the two of us at a table, you know? Besides, especially with art classes starting next term, I’m enjoying the practice. (My letter didn’t say anything about watercolour painting, but she doesn’t have to join in if she doesn’t want to.)

Over the rest of the week, Violet visits a couple of times to accompany me. One event is at another duke’s townhouse and then my mother has her older brother (Uncle Philip) over—his wife will be Clarice’s sponsor for her debut.

A trip to Jemima’s townhouse then completes the visiting-my-friends set. While her father is only a baron, they have close ties to the Count of Hythe and, like all areas along the southern coast, the town of Hythe is a prospering place. The townhouse actually belongs to the count, but Jemima’s family are staying in it at this time for whatever reason (I’m just a guest, no need to tell me everything).

Her parents are wonderfully lovely, easy to tell where she gets her chattiness after speaking once with her mother. I’m the first to arrive today, so she keeps Jemima and I company while we wait for the others, and she, well, knows how to stall for time.

“Oh I met Jem’s father at a rugby match,” she says, her voice wistful. (I make a note of “Jem”.) “Although he usually played, that day he had to sit out for a cramp. Only, every few minutes he forgot entirely, jumping up to cheer on his teammates and either gasping in pain or outright falling over when his leg reminded him.”

She pauses there, lightly chuckling behind one hand and wiping the corner of her eye with the other.

“I found myself closely watching him for the rest of the match, torn between laughter and sympathy, until I finally gave in and asked my brother to inquire his name. Of course, my parents had all sorts of objections—him being two years my junior, his status as merely a baron, that he actively played such a barbaric sport after leaving school—yet, well, I had already proven myself as something of a lame duck, so it was only a matter of time that they accepted the engagement.”

A maid interrupts to announce another arrival. Lady Hythe (technically Lady Saltwood) and Jemima leave to go greet them. Alone, I have some time to reflect over what Lady Hythe told me.

It’s… a rather touching story and every sentence reveals so much. I mean, she’s certainly beautiful for her age, so I can’t imagine how she had trouble finding a suitor when she was younger. And she glossed over the problems that age, status, and even hobbies can be when trying to marry, but they surely were the cause of many arguments with her parents.

And I would like to think of it as love overcoming all odds, but… isn’t it terribly sad that such a small gap could have prevented the marriage? What does two years matter? What real difference is there between the quality of life for (the wife of) a baron and a duke? How is him playing rugby important?

Well, the answer is that the parents don’t want others to think less of them because of who their daughter married. Imagine stopping your daughter marrying someone she loves because other people might make a snide comment or two. Just… terribly sad.

Approaching footsteps bring me out of my thoughts, and Jemima reappears, now with Belle rather than her mother. We make a bit of small talk between us, not long before Violet and then Helena arrive, beginning the tea party. Something nice to drink and eat, good company, fun conversations—we know what we’re doing. I mean, it’s nothing unusual, but it’s nice. By the end, I really do feel like I’ve learned a little more about my friends and so grown a little closer to them.

Back home, I spend the evening collecting my thoughts and ideas for Iris’s dress. After Trissy comes tomorrow, I’ll make the final design, getting started on the dress on Monday.

I wake up early (well, Liv wakes me up early) the next morning. There’s not enough time to prepare everything between breakfast and brunch, so I dress up nicely before breakfast. With what Trissy and I spoke about at Lady Ashford’s, I feel somewhat pressured to look stunning today, fashionable and beautiful. Rather than pearls, I coordinate around silver. I braid my silvery highlights into a strip and use the hair clip from Evan to keep it in place, similar to Violet’s signature look, while I have the rest of my hair up (hair pins hidden away), and a silver and flowery hair comb there for decoration. I go with a simple chain necklace and light bracelet (both in silver) for jewellery. (I’m still a bit young for anything fancy.)

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Although silver goes best with black, I chose a dark blue dress. It’s another good combination and I feel like it complements my eyes and braid better. I mean, they are actually pale blue, just appear silver because they’re shiny.

“Oh you do look nice,” my mother says when I enter the drawing room. I think she and Clarice have been praising me so much recently to encourage me to dress up more. You know, they did seem worried I had no interest in fashion.

I feign modesty, and then chat with her until breakfast is ready.

After the meal, I arrange for tea and biscuits to be brought out later, and I go check the garden for a good spot, Liv following behind me with a blanket. Sweet peas in pastel colours make for a great watercolour, and the peonies are rather vibrant at the moment, the geraniums as well. I’m really spoiled for choice.

The garden is loosely organised around the central pond, all paths converging there, and the pond itself would make a wonderful painting. Around it are the lowest flowerbeds, the heights gradually increasing as you go outwards, the corners of the garden where trees are and along the edges are tall border plants (like the irises). There’s some lawn here and there between flowerbeds, and I find a spot near the pond that gives a good view of the spring flowers in bloom. Liv places the blanket as a marker; another servant will bring out a sun shade later.

I spend the rest of my preparation time inspecting the paper and paints and paintbrushes, making sure it’s all in good shape and specifically choosing colours that match the scene from the viewing spot.

A little after nine, a maid announces the arrival of a carriage. I quickly make my way to the front hall. While I’m sure my parents would like to meet Trissy, I specifically asked them to just greet her, not wanting to scare her. A duke is rather intimidating, even for the children of another duke. For a similar reason, I suggested that Clarice and Joshua don’t need to greet her. The fewer unfamiliar faces, the better, right?

In the minute or so it takes Trissy to alight and walk to the front door, Liv checks me over. All this fussing over my appearance, it really makes me feel like I’m actually nobility, not just taking part in a long-winded game of Victorian role-play.

A knock echoes.

My parents emerge from the parlour as the butler opens the door, thus begins the ritual. Thankfully, my parents follow my request, a most simple exchange of greetings made before they excuse themselves. Sort of to my surprise, Trissy handles herself well through it. Yes, she’s shy, but she’s also nobility. Her governess and finishing school weren’t just for show.

“Well then, shall we?” I ask her.

It’s barely noticeable, but her posture slackens and her eyes open wider. A softer appearance. Speaking of, she rather took my words to heart the other day, today sporting a rather bright purple dress (the colour like an amethyst) to go with her pearl hair clip (no ribbons, her hair loose but for her fringe tucked neatly to the side). A blend of mature and youthful, reminding me of a little girl dressing up like her mother. I don’t mean that in a bad way, though, very much a look that suits her. Neither childish nor adult.

“Yes,” she says brightly.

As her earlier words to my parents were entirely scripted, I wasn’t comfortable making a judgement on her mood from them, but this one word reassures me that she’s happy to be here. I give her a smile and then start leading us, the short walk to the garden hard to mess up.

Along the way, I say, “You look beautiful today.”

I don’t glance over, but I can hear her blush in the timid way she says, “Th-thank you…. You look beautiful too.”

The sun still a little stuck behind the townhouse, we walk out into shade. Lightly dressed as we are, it’s a little chilly, but the sunshine quickly warms me up once we go past the patio. “How do you like our garden?” I ask.

She responds more easily this time. “Oh I do like it, very colourful. My parents have mostly lawn.”

Since my family has the ballroom, we don’t particularly need space outside for large events. (I mean, the building is so wide, our patio is rather spacious anyway.) For more middling families, a garden is a more reasonable alternative. But even that is expensive, land costs high here, so the lower end of upper-class families may not even have a garden.

We have a little more small talk on the way to the spot. Once there, I invite her to sit and ask her if she would like to paint as we chat. She’s reluctant at first, but, seeing me start, she agrees and joins in. While I never mention Lady Ashford, I do ask about Lady Wye and learn some of Trissy’s past—the three girls rather close because their parents are old friends and live near each other, often visiting. And as I thought, Trissy and Lady Wye went to a more local finishing school than Queen Anne’s. It was during that time that, separated from one friend and in a different class from the other, she started wanting to change.

“It must sound so silly, but that little time between classes, sitting alone as everyone else happily talked, I… felt so lonely,” she says, her voice echoing the vulnerability she felt.

I’ve made a point of continuing my painting, not looking at her this whole time, so I can only imagine the bittersweet expression she shows. Speaking honestly, I say, “I know loneliness isn’t silly.”

There’s no need to compare past traumas, only sympathise or empathise. We’re all walking our own paths.

We move on to brighter topics next, and eventually tea and snacks come, our painting pausing while we eat. Nothing really happens. I don’t do anything unreasonable nor eccentric, just talk and paint. While I know it’s Trissy’s choice to associate with whoever she wants, I don’t want to strain her relationship with Lady Ashford, so I act the proper lady.

Still, when it comes time for her to leave, I send her off with a tub of ice cream, telling her, “This is only for my friends to eat, so you can’t share any with Lady Ashford, okay?”

She giggles, but nods her head. “What of Lady Wye?”

I think for a moment, and then nod. “If you wish to, you may; however, I shan’t send her any if she asks me, so it would probably be best not to let her taste it lest she become addicted.”

Trissy giggles again. So cute, bless her. “Okay.”

I’d like to send her off with a hug, or pat her head, but I make do with sandwiching her one hand between both of mine. “Take care,” I say.

She might not fit into my circle of friends, or stand out as much as Lottie and Gwen, or Iris, but I still cherish her. A precious friend. I might not have many opportunities to get closer to her, or even speak with her, yet I hope to find a place in my heart for her, and hope she finds a place in her heart for me.

At the least, I will remember this morning fondly.