The lesson with Gwen goes great. She responds very well to this practical style of teaching, happy to count the “coins” and add up the cost of her items, and I talk her through giving me change (subtraction) when it’s her turn to be the shopkeeper. Not perfect, but I can’t fault her enthusiasm. Counting in twos is difficult for her, threes a losing battle entirely; however, she has some familiarity with shillings, able to tell me what half a shilling is in pennies (a third and a quarter as well).

We do that for somewhere between one and two hours, ending around eleven o’clock for my cooking lesson.

“The cheapest foods are usually so because they’re bitter,” Lottie says, taking out a couple of pots from the (fairly small) refrigerator. No icebox or freezer. She brings them to the table and has me look. “There’s a few ways to deal with them, one being marinading. However, beans are usually just soaked, and these have a thick skin, so I used a brine.”

She scoops out a bean and has me squash it with my fingers. It feels fairly squidgy, and the skin easily splits like a pea. Then she gives me a dried(?) bean to try and, true enough, it’s a lot harder.

Carrying on from there, she takes me through all the preparations for a sort of bean pie: cooking the beans, making a gravy, preparing other bits to add in, the pastry, and finally cooking the pie itself. I try to match Gwen’s enthusiasm and ask Lottie every question that comes to mind. Whether I annoy her, I don’t know, but she she seems happy, giving me serious answers and generally smiling, talking in a bit of a cheery voice.

It’s funny, I don’t think I’ve heard her talk so much before. Maybe this is where Gwen gets it from?

Though it doesn’t take her long to prepare it, maybe fifteen minutes total, the beans still have to cook for an hour to soften (until tender, not mushy). But the completed pie only goes in to brown, so we eat at a reasonable half past twelve or so.

I don’t really know how much I learned, yet I feel I’ve learnt a lot, and not just about cooking. Something I have wondered is if Lottie is happy being a housewife. Having listened to her explanations, I think she is. Food is clearly something she takes a lot of care with, and is something like an outlet for her to challenge and express herself, if that makes sense. Her talking was laden with personal experience and anecdotes of things she’s tried that work well and not-so-well, not simply following her mother’s recipes.

That’s good. Even though it’s just something I’ve decided in my head and not necessarily true, I’m glad she’s happy.

After lunch, she teaches me some baking, making a tray of savoury biscuit. Despite using cheap ingredients, it has a soft (albeit not fluffy) texture and the taste is sweetened with a splodge of whatever jam or syrup you want on top. At this time of year, no fruits have properly come into season, but she has some jam made from early-fruiting strawberries, and also a kind of sweet carrot jam (not as sweet as a fruit jam, but noticeably sweet).

It’s time for me to go once we eat up our dessert. I would say it’s been a good day here.

When evening comes, I catch up on the sewing I missed yesterday; while there is plenty of time to finish Iris’s dress, I don’t want to fall into the habit of missing days. It’s a lot easier to find time in the past than the future.

For Sunday, I stick with what I’ve done the last few visits and go in the morning. I was wondering whether it makes more sense to go meet them after church, but, really, it’s more sensible to go before. Enough time to have fun, not so long that I’m intruding all weekend.

Len and I arrive, and I dismiss her and knock. Coming inside, Iris is already there and sewing with Gwen, setting the tone for the morning. Those two mostly occupied by that, I help when needed and otherwise talk with Lottie about some other cooking questions I thought of after leaving. It at times ends up being a broader discussion than simply food, the topic easily turning to Greg since he often brings old produce home with him, and from him it can really go anywhere. Like, we go from lettuce to if he takes holidays, and then I ask, “Did you two have a honeymoon?”

For some reason, she’s reluctant to go into detail on that topic.

Time to leave, Iris joins us on the walk to the school, talking to me about a few nobility and upper-class things she thought about over the break. Even if commonfolk aren’t involved in the social season, they pick up bits of news and know it goes on; Iris is naturally curious for an insider’s perspective on the whole thing.

At school, the rest of the morning is calmly spent reading (I brought a book with me after changing this time). After lunch, though, we go on a sort of scavenger hunt to find things for our still-life sketches. The grass is still a bit muddy from the rainy weather that went on… Thursday and Friday? Anyway, it’s a bit muddy, so we look for sticks that have ended up in reaching distance of the paths, loose stones. I fortunately have spare handkerchiefs to clean what things catch Jemima’s or Helena’s interest.

As for fruit, Violet takes a couple to go after supper.

We retire to our rooms early to work on our sketches. I carefully arrange my three things and get to work, keeping in mind it’s for reference rather than a submission. That is, I pay attention to the shapes and where there’s highlights and shadows, but don’t worry over the detail.

Finishing that, I move on to my usual routine. Since I did extra sewing yesterday, I didn’t make notes on how the lesson with Gwen went, so that’s what I do now. A sort of self-evaluation. What went well, what didn’t, what skill checks she passed, what ones she’s close to passing, how to help her pass them. It’s very mechanical, gears going round and around that turn effort into progress. That suits me. My cleverness comes from Ellie’s memories, but my motivation and diligence is mine.

After that, it’s calisthenics, tea, and sewing. Perfect way to end a night.

Monday falls comfortably into place. Lessons, meals, embroidery club, hanging out with my friends, everything going well. There’s Violet’s diet, writing assignments, listening to a few of Cyril’s poems, walks with my friends, doing a bit of homework.

Tuesday goes much the same, bringing me to our art lesson in good spirits. We pack up, move over to the arts classroom, and sit at the easels. Given the impression Ms Berks gave, we sit as we wish rather than in a seating plan. (Well, me and Evan stay in the same seat, but my friends sit in front of us, the rest of the class shuffling around however they want.)

As Ms Berks said she would last lesson, she instructs us to take out our reference sketches and start on our oil paintings. Since we’re nearly all beginners, she talked us through the process last time (things like how you thin the paint with turpentine, and you should only ever put thicker paint on top of thinner paint, not the other way around). I’m not sure how typical the actual painting techniques she teaches us are, but we only have an hour to paint, so she at least teaches us how to paint quickly, very much throwing paint at the canvas (not literally) and then shaping and texturing it.

Because of my experience last week, I know better than to expect something light and pretty like a watercolour painting. This is… messy and expressive. Powerful. Or maybe it’s better to describe it as loud. Most details are difficult to add, but highlights and shadows are easily done, so I focus on that for adding depth and refining the shape.

“This is….”

I’m pulled from my painting by Ms Berks speaking softly beside me. Glancing at her, she’s staring intently at my canvas. I take a moment to adjust my thoughts, and then say, “A teddy bear, a scarf, and a hair clip,” while gesturing at my reference sketch.

“Another one? Is this some new trend…” she says, talking more to herself than me.

“Pardon, miss?” I say.

She lightly shakes her head, and then leans in closer to the painting. “You have good eyes. Last week, you captured the colours well. And this is… very intimate, is it not? I can see how much you care for each of them,” she says.

I fidget under the praise. “But I’m still no good, am I?” I say, more a reflex than a conscious thought.

She hums for a moment, and I’m glad she’s not one of my friends who responds to self-deprecation with more praise. “Do you remember what you said you would never forget?” she asks softly, barely a whisper.

Wincing, I nod. It’s been a while since I’ve been reminded.

“In a sense, the reverse is also true. You are correct to say this painting is not good, yet art need not be good to capture something unique and compelling,” she says. After a moment’s pause, she asks, “Have you not made or seen something which is both of poor quality and yet moving?”

It’s like she can see into my heart, Gwen’s painting instantly coming to mind. “Yes, miss,” I mumble.

“While I would not call this piece moving, it has… a warmth to it,” she says, and those are her parting words, walking over to inspect Evan’s canvas next.

Even toned down, I’m not entirely comfortable with her praise, but I work hard for the rest of the lesson to try and earn it. Of course, we have to stop a bit early to tidy up the paints and write down the homework.

Well, “homework”. We are to choose either a landscape from around the school grounds or the still life from today and draw another reference sketch to use next lesson.

With that written down, I pack up my things, feeling a little heavy about going to water magic class. I’m fairly tempted to just drop it. Really, I’d rather spend the hour with my friends, and it’s not like earth magic class where I get to see Julian (or embroidery club with Evan and Cyril).

As I’m busy thinking over that, someone walks over to me; I expect it to be Violet or another friend, but, when I look, it’s Lady Challock—by herself. “Lady Kent, are you attending the class?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say, keeping my confusion from showing on my face. It’s tempting to glance across the room and look for Lady Ashford, but it would be rude to look away while speaking with Lady Challock.

She smiles at my answer. “Would you accompany us again? I have to say, I missed having you last week,” she says.

An answer doesn’t come to mind. There’s definitely part of me that’s suspicious, part that’s glad, torn between wanting to believe and wanting to question. From what I overheard last week, Lady Ashford did say something….

Picking up on my hesitation, Lady Challock leans a touch closer and whispers, “We are too old for silly rumours, wouldn’t you agree?”

That clears up some of my reluctance, enough for me to at least give her a chance. “Of course,” I say, smiling.

There is nothing said by Lady Ashford when she joins us, and Lady Challock walks between us on the path to the classroom. It’s a bit of a squeeze, but I’m used to it from walking with my friends. This arrangement of her in the middle is continued in the classroom.

Now, I wonder what happens next?