Over the afternoon, there’s a trickle of people who come to the exhibition; however, few even look at my dresses, just the occasional young lady. I try not to be disappointed, but it’s only natural to be hurt after working so hard. Still, I don’t show it, chatting happily with Gwen about this and that.

Anyway, the visitors don’t really look at the art much either; they’re mostly here to see Ms Berks for a short talk. What is studied, how it will benefit their child—the usual questions. And it’s hard not to notice a lot of the small things that go on. The way it’s nearly always the husband speaking, wife silent, and the tone some of them take when speaking with Ms Berks. I can almost hear them asking, “What is a woman doing teaching young men?” as if she isn’t qualified.

In fairness, I’m probably hearing the wrong thing, more likely they just don’t see the point in teaching young men art. Yet that is depressing in its own way. I mean, Evan has enjoyed his embroidery even though it’s a feminine hobby. (I wouldn’t even call art feminine.)

Speaking of Evan, he does visit along with Cyril and Julian. Unfortunately, there are other people around, so they only offer me quiet words of praise before going on their way.

“They came out rather well,” Cyril says.

“They really are pretty,” Evan says.

“My sister won’t be disappointed,” Julian says.

It’s quite funny, though, none of them able to actually look at the dresses for long; the dresses might not be tight-fitting, but they are still shapely. Poor boys. Hard not to be awkward at this age, huh?

So it’s a rather anticlimactic afternoon. When the bell rings at five, Ms Berks closes the door and the models go to change and wipe off their makeup (it’s not so stubborn as the modern makeup Ellie used). Then we all leave. This isn’t town, not a place I can be friendly with Lottie and Iris.

Back at the dormitory, my friends ask me a couple of questions, but we move on to studying quickly. It’s easier for me to focus now I’ve crossed the first hurdle of the exhibition.

Still, I retire to my room a little early to work on Iris’s dress. Even if my exhibition isn’t popular, Iris will surely love this dress… won’t she? She liked the other dresses I wore to town, and she liked Gwen’s dress. And this dress is so pretty. It’s really beautiful and elegant, something amazing. So she’ll like it. I… have to believe she’ll like it.

The next morning, I get through the studying and we head off for an early lunch. My appetite is better today, especially since I carefully look over everything while thinking of what to get Gwen. It’s hard to decide. When we finish, rather than going back to the dormitory or me going to the art classroom, we have a walk. The grounds dried up again, there’s a lot of students lazing about under trees, and the driveway is already filling up with carriages, maids and footmen rushing this way and that.

It helps to focus on other people, my unsteady heart settling down.

After a lap of the school buildings, I say my goodbye, still a bit before I really need to. Coming to room, Ms Berks is (again) already there.

“Hullo, miss,” I say, stepping inside.

“Nerves feeling better today?” she softly says, her focus staying on the papers.

It sounds rhetorical, so I don’t reply. Instead, I sit on the chair in front of the desk, waiting for the models to arrive. It’s not as long of a wait today, the door opening about five minutes later—Len leading the way with her maidly greeting. “We and the guests are here, mistresses.”

Like yesterday, I ask for lunch orders; Lottie and Iris stick with what they had before. So I stride off to the dining hall, once again borrowing two maids to bring food and drinks, and the models are all changed by the time I return. Lottie isn’t surprised to see the somewhat lavish meal I chose for Gwen, but I think the cottage pie isn’t that special. Gwen can hardly appreciate the expensive cheese added to the mash, or the subtle taste of fine wine to the “mince”, can she? (Don’t worry, the alcohol is boiled out—no one’s going to get tipsy from eating it. I think.)

While those three eat their lunch, I attend to Len’s and Lizzy’s makeup. It’s the same as yesterday, but better applied since I had the practice, letting me emphasise their natural beauty that little more.

Really, if I wasn’t of such high status, it would be nice to be a lady’s companion. Just be someone whose job it is to be a friend and I could do her makeup as well.

But I suppose that’s a passing fancy only I can have as someone born with arguably the highest female privilege in the country. (Princesses aren’t exactly afforded many of the freedoms I enjoy.)

When I finish these two, they swap with Iris and Lottie. Again, I do their makeup better than yesterday, giving them quite the sparkle. Then I tidy up before returning to the classroom. And we wait. Iris doesn’t try to speak to me today, I guess remembering her manners. I wouldn’t mind if she did, but she is technically being employed, so these things are rather strict. Not paying her to talk sort of thing.

After a few minutes, the bell rings. Ms Berks doesn’t say anything this time, simply walks over and opens the door before returning to the desk.

So it begins.

Unlike yesterday, there’s a lot more ladies with their parents looking around—because Queen Anne’s finished, I guess. Some of them show a hint of interest in my dresses, but more of them just look at the paintings. I don’t blame them. As beautiful as I think the dresses are, they’re not really art, are they? A hobby taken too far, that really does fit best.

Well, I don’t take it to all to heart. I talk to Gwen, and I take her to the toilet when she needs to go, and we have a short walk to stretch our legs and keep her from getting too bored. On the way back, I ask her, “Do you like the dress I made you?”

She squeezes my hand, looking up at me with a bright smile. “Yeah! All my friends are so jealous,” she says, almost a smugness coming to her.

I giggle and gently squeeze her hand back. “I’m glad,” I whisper.

That’s enough to offset all the disappointment from today and yesterday.

Back at the classroom, I don’t feel like sitting right now, so I lead her around the room, asking what she thinks of the paintings. Her answers are rather funny. When it comes to the junior paintings, she misunderstands a couple of them because of the not-entirely-lifelike shapes and colours—a red apple becomes a strawberry, a sunset becomes a fire. The seniors don’t fare much better, her critique harsh.

“It’s really messy,” she says, eyes narrowed as her eyebrows are set in such a frown. I can’t say I disagree, the bouquet of flowers very busy with all those colours crammed into such a small area.

After that, we sit down again, and I pass the time by teaching her some more French phrases.

Around four o’clock, I’m pleasantly surprised by the visitors: Florence and Ellen (and their respective parents). No Julian or Evan with them, though. My pen pals take no time to spot me and rush over, and Florence even takes my hands as she says, “Lady Kent, it is good to see you.”

“And you,” I say to her before looking at Ellen. “And it’s good to see you.”

Ellen gives me a small curtsey and, oh gosh, I’m still highly susceptible, my heart melting. “And you,” she says in her soft voice.

Ellen’s parents come over chuckling and giggling, Florence’s parents more subdued, yet still with amused looks; I properly greet them all.

As if the Florence who attended my tea party to scold me for teasing her brother never existed, she drags me and Ellen away from their parents to look at my dresses. “Oh they are so pretty,” she says, inspecting Iris’s starry night. “I can almost see them twinkling.”

“Thank you,” I say, smiling.

“I have been practising my knitting, but I couldn’t even imagine making something like this. It must have taken hours of coming up with a pattern, and then hours more sewing, and I cannot see a single mistake,” she says, falling to a whisper by the end. Without thinking, she reaches out, stopping just short of touching the dress.

While I don’t think Iris would mind, I probably shouldn’t say that; Florence can always feel the dress when she visits me in the summer holiday. (Ms Berks did say I can take the dresses back with me.)

“What do you think?” I ask Ellen.

She hums in thought, her slightly vacant gaze wandering across Lottie’s fields dress, and then she softly giggles. “It’s quite funny. Even though it is art, isn’t it also rude to stare?”

Ah. She has me there, doesn’t she? “There is no need to fret: my volunteers knew what they were getting into, so please do stare at them.”

“Then I guess I will,” she says. True to her word, her eyes seem to focus, and she spends a good minute looking over just Lottie before she gives her opinion. “This is… a farm? But as a bird would see it?”

Oh. That’s twice in a row, huh? No aerial photography here. “Yes.”

“I thought I felt light looking at it,” she says, nodding. “It’s curious, I haven’t imagined how animals see the world before. This is what a bird might see, yet a caterpillar would see something just as bizarre, wouldn’t she? Cabbage mountains, and leafy eruptions. Oh I would like to see that next year.”

Hmm, is the whole knows-what-I-want-to-hear a Sussex thing? She really is as sweet as her brother. “I am unsure if I will do something like this next year, but my friend did suggest I could try making tapestries.”

Florence speaks up this time. “I would rather see more of your dresses,” she says.

“Why is that?” I ask, genuinely curious what she has to say.

“Well, there is something beautiful about being able to wear it. I guess it’s like… it is alive, moving with every breath, and will eventually die from being worn. Or am I just spouting nonsense?”

Ellen shakes her head. “No, I think so too.”

My heart aching from the sweetness, I say, “Then I shall definitely have to put on another exhibition next year.”

They smile brightly at that announcement. “Oh, but,” Florence says, “as beautiful as these dresses are, won’t you have some like the one you showed us at the first tea party? I simply adored the simplicity of it.”

I remember she had been overly awed by the dress (my pink one with lace-like embroidery), but wasn’t Ellen not so fussed? Though I’ll gladly include some designs like those, I ask Ellen, “Do you remember that dress?”

Ellen sort of sighs, a long breath escaping her as she looks to be thinking. “I didn’t much understand how impressive it was at the time. Having seen these and tried some sewing myself, I would like to see it again.”

“And some similar dresses? Ones designed to be more wearable?” I ask.

(Unsurprisingly) Florence nods immediately, but Ellen takes a couple of seconds to decide before gently nodding as well. “I think that would be nice,” she says.

“Very well. I shall try to live up to your expectations,” I say, smiling.