I go through my weekend routine, dressing up in my blue dress (it feels rather suited to the blue and sunny skies of summer) with a coat over the top. Uncomfortably warm, but somewhat inconspicuous. With Len, we make our escape, walking down the road into Tuton.

My mind is a bit beside me. I am on the tall side for a woman, maybe a touch more height to be added in the last of my teenage years, and Len is closer to the average, putting me half a head or so taller than her. Though it’s hard to tell figure given the style of clothes, I think her waist probably isn’t bigger than mine (or not by much if it is), the same with the width of our shoulders.

The road nearly empty at this hour, I say to her, “Do you remember the dress I made for Gwen?”

She takes a second to think. “Yes, mistress.”

“There will be an exhibition of my dresses near the start of next month. Would you be interested in wearing one? That is, if you actually want to—this isn’t an order. I know it’s not exactly a reward, just standing around for a few hours….” Sort of talked myself out of it.

“For the open days, mistress?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say.

She doesn’t give an immediate reply, the two of us entering the town, following the familiar route. It’s only when we near Lottie’s house that she speaks. “Is it a pretty dress?” she asks.

I nearly giggle at the question, surprising me with how honest it is, how almost childish it sounds. “Unfortunately, I already have models for the two prettiest dresses. There is still one which I would say is fairly pretty, the other one more artistic than pretty. Of course, that’s not necessarily a bad thing: if you wear the prettiest dress, then you have the most people staring at you.”

She actually laughs at my little (not entirely untrue) joke, a rare break of character for her. Maybe it’s because I never see her smiling, but her happy expression is rather pretty itself, a youthful and warm contrast to the bland uniform.

Of course, it’s only a passing moment before she returns to normal. “If that is mistress’s wish,” she quietly says—her consent.

I’m a little happier for hearing that, my knocking on the door at Lottie’s house a little louder.

Most of the morning, I tutor Gwen, bringing with me today a bunch of (paper) tuppences and thruppences. We work on counting in twos and threes and then do some multiplication with them. “One egg costs two pennies, how much is it for five eggs?” For whatever reason, she’s still better with division, quicker to tell me how many eggs she can buy with ten pennies.

I also start on English skills. Bad as it may be, I wrote a story that’s made of a few paragraphs of simple sentences. I have her read it aloud, see how she handles uncommon words and words with weird pronunciations, and then ask her about what happened in the story, how she thinks the character feels at the start and at the end. And then I ask her to write the next “chapter”, continuing the story for another paragraph. After that, I show her some penmanship exercises my governess had me do; not exactly interesting, but motor skills can only really be refined through practice, I think.

Then it’s cooking time with Lottie. The meal today is very vegan: a dish of roasted vegetables. Of course, it’s not quite so simple, some needing to be “pre-cooked” and all of them coated in an oil (she doesn’t say, but it doesn’t seem like olive oil, probably sunflower or vegetable oil?) and rubbed with certain spices or herbs to enhance their flavour. While some are pungent raw, the time in the oven mellows the smells.

When it comes to eating, they’re all rather tender, nothing tasting too strong, yet everything also tasting different. Even the onions have a mild taste, almost sweet as they’re slightly caramelised. For Gwen, Lottie brings out a relish to dip her food in; I try it as well, finding it like a not-as-sweet tomato ketchup.

For dessert, she makes a strawberry jelly. (I guess my questions last week influenced her.) Unlike most of what she makes, it’s very sweet, no syrups or jams needed to sweeten it. As such, Gwen just gobbles it up.

“Fruits tend to go further when they accompany the food rather than are the focus of it,” Lottie says to me, while her ironic smile says, “What can you do?”

Right, I guess this is why she normally makes savoury desserts and adds a bit of jam or syrup.

Though I can’t offer to help wash up, I keep her company, Gwen off doing her homework for Sunday school. There’s not much for me to ask this time, most of my questions about jelly having been answered last week.

That said, I do have something in mind to ask.

It’s funny, I remember Lottie being so tall when I was young—an adult. Yet she’s now nearly a head shorter than me. She wasn’t skinny or anything, but, now, she’s certainly a more motherly figure. Still on the thin side, but her face is filled out and, in a lighter dress for the warmer weather, her modest chest is rather less modest. Well, I’m told that becoming a mother does that.

“Lottie,” I say, getting her attention.

She hums a note in reply.

“You remember the dress exhibition I mentioned?” I ask.

She nods.

“What do you think about being one of my models?”

Since she’s facing the sink, I can’t see her expression. However, I read some hesitation from her when says, “By model, you mean for me to wear one of the dresses?”

“Yes,” I say.

For a short while, there’s only the clinks and splashes from the sink to break the silence, the odd word leaking from the lounge (Gwen tends to read aloud). Finally, she says, “I am… not opposed to the idea.”

However, she’s far from convincing.

“I am not asking you to do it, but asking if you would like to,” I say, trying to emphasise the difference. “There is no shortage of maids who could model for me. I just thought it may be an opportunity for you to do something different for a change, come to the school and dress up. Of course, Gwen can come as well, but I can always borrow the dresses if you don’t want to do it or don’t want to bring Gwen with.”

I catch myself falling into “problem-solving mode”, making up problems and solutions without listening to her. Calming myself with a breath, I reset my focus, and then properly address her.

“That is, I have a dress for you if you would like to come wear it. However, it is more important to me that you are happy, so I want… an honest answer.”

My words hang in the air, and I resist the urge to spoil them by piling more words on top. The urge to convince her. A sense of “I know what’s best for you” that I cover up with “good intentions”. Childish, arrogant, self-absorbed—take your pick.

But I’m learning, growing as a person. That’s enough for me.

It takes her a minute or so to come to a decision, and she quietly says, “Please remind me of the details.”

I smile to myself. That’s kind of a maid answer—a positive one.

Though she was around when I talked to Iris about all this before, I guess she wasn’t really paying attention, nothing to do with her. So I tell her the dates and times, that there’ll be lunch served (even if it isn’t, I’ll have maids bring food over), and of course a little pay for her time.

She listens closely, nodding along. After I finish, she says, “I’ll discuss the matter with Greg, if you could wait for a reply.”

“Sure, no rush. Tomorrow or next weekend is fine,” I say, happy.

When I go back to school, my friends and I go on another painting-reference walk. Ms Berks gave specialised homework this week, so Helena has to include flowers in her next landscape painting, Jemima a building; Belle has to change out one of her still life objects for something more personal, while Violet and I have simply been asked to make adjustments—in my case, the warmer lighting, and Violet is to make a reference specifically for highlights and shadows.

Given how late the sun sets now it’s summer, I make a landscape sketch of my own to pass the time. After dinner, around when we retire to our rooms, I visit Belle to make use of her sunset-facing window.

At her open door, I say, “Thank you again.”

She gently laughs off my thanks and gestures for me to come in. “There’s no need,” she says, closing the door behind me. Then she goes over to her bedside table, clearing it. I put my things on top and move it over to about the middle of the room, and she pulls over her desk chair for me to sit on. Everything in place, I carefully move my items around, arranging them in the same fashion as my other references.

Not wanting to dally, I start sketching right away. Belle perches neatly on the side of her bed, holding a book in her hand, yet I feel her gaze settle on me or see her look at my still life from time to time.

I guess she has something on her mind. “Is there something you wished to ask?” I say.

She doesn’t jump, but she stiffens for a moment, her eyes stuck to the far wall. “That is… I suppose I am somewhat curious about the objects you chose,” she says, as close to a mumble as her strict upbringing will allow.

I hum in thought, thinking through the best way to phrase it. “Well, these are very precious to me, the first gifts given to me by my friends,” I say. The teddy bear from Violet, the hair clip from Evan, and the scarf from Lottie and Gwen. Thoughtful and personal presents from my first friends—how could I not cherish them?

Still focused on sketching, I don’t take note of Belle’s reaction, just that she’s quiet for a short while. “I find myself… feeling rather guilty that there is nothing from me there,” she says, barely a whisper.

“That’s sweet of you to say,” I reply.

She weakly laughs.

Continuing, I say, “Your presence is precious to me, but unfortunately is not suited to a still life. When the time comes for portraits, I will be sure to paint one of you. Of course, given my lack of ability, that is perhaps more of a threat.”

I speak lightly, and she laughs again—a more hearty laugh, albeit still a very proper laugh for a lady. “I shall look forward to it,” she says.

Breaking from my sketch for a moment, I glance over and see her smiling, and I smile myself. Then we sit in silence for a good while, some few minutes passing to the scratch of my pencil and the rustle of her pages.

Then she speaks up again. “You know, I did wonder why you always wore that hair clip. To be frank, I thought it quite unsuited to you,” she says.

I hum a note. “What do you think about it now?” I ask.

“Well, I suppose it is something like a beauty mark,” she says.

“That’s a nice way to put it. For me, it has been a small comfort, but I think I will start to think of it like that too,” I say.

She fidgets where she sits. “There really is no need,” she meekly says.

I giggle, leaving my mouth uncovered lest I poke myself in the cheek with my pencil or drop my sketchbook. “What’s the fun of having friends if they don’t change us? Have I not been a bad influence on you? It’s only fair that, at times like this, you influence me back.”

She gives no answer to me; however, when I look over, she has a sweet smile as she looks down at her book. “Belle” really does suit her. Nora and the So-Many Princesses would make a much better story, don’t you think?