My father has no complaints with my decision to not attend the royal dinner, so I return to my room. Although I have been focused on trying to improve my sketch of Gwen sleeping in the carriage, I should go back to thinking about the dress I’ll make for Iris. This is the sort of halfway point of the break, so I want to spend next week working on the design, the last week making the dress.

Delicate, fluttering, vibrant, tall, colourful—there’s so many things I want to express, both about irises and Iris herself. Like Gwen’s dress, I want this to be an expression of the bond between us, the warm feelings I have for my precious friend.

I mean, if Violet is my friend who accepts me knowing the discrepancy between my personality and my status, Iris is the other side of the coin, someone who accepts my status as the discrepancy with my personality. While it is a much newer friendship, I hope that Iris will one day become just as important to me as Violet.

Well, I don’t think anyone can do that (sorry, future husband, you’ll always be second in my heart), but you know what I mean.

So I play with those swirling thoughts through the afternoon. A while later, a knock on my door interrupts. I’m puzzled by it, too early for dinner, expecting Clarice or my mother to be there. Before I can say anything, Liv speaks. “Mistress is requested to greet the guest.”

Huh, I was told we aren’t having anyone over tonight. If I’d known, I would have dressed up a bit, but never mind. “Coming,” I loudly say.

I take a moment to adjust my fringe and neaten my ponytail on the way out, then follow Liv to the staircase, tapping down the stairs. (Surprisingly, I haven’t fallen down them at all despite them being noticeably narrower steps than the manor.) Down at the ground floor, it’s actually empty—was I supposed to take some time to prepare myself first?

That confusion only lasts until the front door opens, a familiar maid revealed, and then a familiar face beside her.

Breaking into a hasty shuffle, I race over as fast as my dress will allow me. “Violet! What are you doing here?” I ask, no regard for formalities.

She laughs freely, her hands too busy being held by mine to cover her mouth. “Well, there is the lunch here tomorrow, yes? Your mother suggested I stay over and help prepare in the morning.”

Seriously, she might as well adopt Violet at this rate. But I wonder, did my father put his foot down after Joshua or something? Joking aside, I’m happy as always to see Violet, my grin painfully broad and the urge to hug her almost overwhelming. I do temper myself depending on the situation, though. Hugs behind closed doors, hand-holding at my house (and only when she’s the only guest), maintaining the proper air of dignity at all other times.

“Let’s go choose an outfit for tomorrow,” I say.

It’s a really fun evening. Violet has been over so much that she’s getting used to my family, and I think there might be something starting between her and Cyril. Well, something starting in Cyril, her attitude towards him not changing as far as I can tell.

When it comes to bedtime, I would like to have a proper sleepover with her, but… I think just two is a bit uncomfortable. If we were sisters, sure. As friends, I think it has too intimate of a feeling, which she wouldn’t like. I don’t know, it just seems less intimate with three or more people. Maybe I’m the one being weird.

Anyway, we both wake up early the next morning and help each other with makeup and hairstyling, our dresses wonderfully complementing. She’s a dark purple and I’m a pastel blue, both of us with silvery detailing and accessories. My mother comments that we look like sisters when we come down for breakfast. (Clarice, on the other hand, is showing off in a rich maroon.) I tease Cyril a bit, asking him how Violet looks today. As always, she scolds me for it, but he does have a bit of a blush to his cheeks.

After eating, Clarice complains about how hard she’d been working the last few weeks, sending me pleading looks, going on and on until I give in and offer to help. So Violet and I are pulled into the preparations.

“How many will be attending?” I ask my mother.

Her smile is a bit crooked, and I understand why when she says, “Oh, thirty or so? And we will be mainly hosting in the garden.”

I glare at Clarice, but she smiles brightly. No wonder she wanted to push off the responsibility for today.

Of course, it’s not like I have to carry tables. However, there are a bunch of extra servants hired for today (from cooking to attending), making the management aspect a lot more difficult. Fortunately, Violet is here to help me from feeling overwhelmed. She’s a guest and so can’t direct the servants, but she can remind me of things and offer suggestions and, honestly, just hearing her voice calms me down.

Today, sandwiches would be far too simple, so I negotiate the meal with the cook. One nice thing about this world is that the lack of meat means you don’t have to worry about slow-roasting meats overnight. (Some food does take that long, but we won’t have anything like that today.) We settle on Italian dishes, centred around pasta and pizza (both very versatile).

Arranging seating is difficult. Our patio only has room for twenty or so comfortably, and we can’t just put out tables in the garden itself, not really the open space for it. Most of the ground floor is taken up by a ballroom, so we can use that to make up the difference.

It’s an exhausting morning. The only thing getting me through it (other than Violet) is knowing that, once the guests arrive, all I have to do is sit around.

Well, that’s what I thought anyway.

At eleven o’clock, the first carriage turns up. That gives us a minute to assemble ourselves for the welcoming. My mind starts to wander as soon as we’re all standing in position, the last bit of my mental energy curious who it is. By how many guests there are, it must be some eight or so families, probably business or political colleagues my father is on good terms with. (But if it was purely business or politics, he wouldn’t invite so many at once?)

My thoughts going that way, I’m very surprised when the door opens and it’s Count and Countess Sussex, Evan and Ellen following behind them. Did my father know them as well as the Duke and Duchess of Sussex?

No matter how confused I am, the greetings go on. Unlike when I visited them, today should be rather formal, so there’s none of those jokes from Countess Sussex.

(An aside, I should think of her as Lady Eastbourne, her title not a form of address like duchess or princess is, and her husband is the Count of Eastbourne. But I can think of her however I like in my head as long as I don’t slip up when speaking.)

While I’d love to chat with Ellen, all we can do right now is smile at each other. Once they are suitably greeted, we go through to the garden, fathers chatting, mothers and Clarice chatting, children quiet. You know, the whole “seen, not heard” thing. We can whisper amongst ourselves, but it’s better manners to wait for half of the guests to arrive first.

Fortunately, it’s not long before the next carriage comes along; as Violet and Cyril are themselves guests here, they stay behind with Ellen and Evan this time. Back in the front hall, I stand up straight with good posture and a polite expression.

Who will it be this time?

My sense of “something is amiss” preparing me, no surprise flickers when the door opens to reveal Jemima a step behind her parents, face peeking through the gap. There’s no time to do it, but I very much would like to look my family in the eye and ask them, “Really?”

True enough, the next guests to arrive are Belle, then Florence and Julian, then Helena with both her brothers and her sister (and all their parents).

Really.

Still, I’m stupidly happy when we lead Helena’s family out back. There’s a liveliness to the garden I haven’t seen before, the atmosphere light and pleasant, and… it’s all my friends. A place filled with people I love and cherish.

My mother and Clarice look incredible as they blend in with the group of older women, naturally picking up the ongoing conversation and introducing Helena’s mother, a subtle balance of exerting control and downplaying arrogance. Meanwhile, my father brings Helena’s father and her older brother to the circle of men, a real sense of gravitas despite his jovial expression, and without a word they pause their conversation, giving him the floor to make introductions.

It’s hard to describe, but I understand how difficult those two situations are, even as my family makes it look effortless. In fact, I keenly understand, coming to the loose groups us children have split ourselves into.

Joshua is with the princes, and he’s roughly Rupert’s age, so I lead with that introduction and include that (from what Helena has mentioned before) they are both avid rugby players. Of course, Rupert snorts, Joshua being a small and cute thing, but that’s for the boys to sort out between themselves.

Cessy sort of falls into Florence and Ellen’s group, but I can tell she’s a bit too scared to leave Helena right now. After making introductions, I say, “Shall we go view the flowers? You know, the apple trees have started blossoming and it’s quite the sight.”

The ladies are rather receptive to my suggestion, so we go for a stroll—my schoolfriends and pen pals and Cessy. Yet, every flower today makes my heart lightly ache, poor Julian. He didn’t look bad when he arrived, but if the wind picks up….

From there, things become a blur of giggles and smiles, a natural rhythm forming as I go between the groups, talking with Violet and company one moment, Florence and Ellen the next, gradually nudging Cessy to involve herself with Florence and Ellen (she’s going to Queen Anne’s in September, so she has plenty of questions to ask them). Too busy to worry or doubt myself.

And I know in my heart that the laughter I hear isn’t directed at me, that when someone says my name, it’s not because they’re talking badly of me. Old scars fading away.

Come lunchtime, the adults move inside while we children eat on the patio. I’m pleased to see the food is well-received. For dessert, there’s some complaints about the lack of ice cream, but I reply, “Perhaps if whoever was in charge knew who the guests would be, she would have arranged iced crème,” and that stops them in their tracks.

It seems I really was the only one not in the know.

What sweet things we do have are still delicious, zesty tarts and similarly refreshing treats to help with the bloating that sometimes comes from carb-heavy meals. Like, a lot of lemon and tangy orange flavouring. Sitting next to Violet, I (as I often have this break) try to sneak more calories into her by having her taste a few different things.

After a giggle behind her hand, Jemima asks Violet, “Does she always spoil you?”

“Yes,” Violet says, that single word packing a lot of frustration.

I slide over a sorbet for her, the flavour ones she rather likes. “What about this?”

As we all “tidy up” at the end of the meal, I make a mental note that Violet’s parents and Cyril’s father didn’t come. Maybe that’s part of why they get on. Also… I thought they were distant but still loved Violet, and it’s depressing to now think I am mistaken.

No, let’s focus on the party.

Rather than have the adults come out, they have us join them inside, and my father stands up to make a toast once we’re all in the ballroom. I wonder what kind of toast he will make, and he doesn’t disappoint.

“To the next generation, let them find the world a better place than we found it,” he says, his voice filling the hall.

The other adults, prepped with glasses of wine or champagne (from what I can see), hold up their drinks and echo him. “To the next generation!”

A hundred other little things happen, and I get caught up in the flow, happily going along. I play the piano at my mother’s request (and I have Cessy join me for another duet), and Lady Hastings somehow talks me into showing a couple of the watercolours I did of irises (my fault for mentioning what hobbies I’ve taken up over the break), and so much more.

All too soon, it’s time for everyone to go.

“Thank you for coming,” I say to each and every guest, sincerely meaning it.

Well, I only think those words as it’s actually my parents who thank them for coming, but it’s the thought that counts.