I descended the stairs, the soft fabric of my dressing robe trailing behind me. The scent of kippers and fresh scones drifted through the air, mingling with the faint aroma of bck tea. The dining room was bathed in the golden glow of morning sunlight filtering through the windows, and outside, the gentle trill of birdsong added to the quiet serenity of the house.

  Eliza was already seated at the table, her dark hair in rag curls stuffed neatly beneath her cap, a cup of tea cradled in her hand. A thin pamphlet was open before her, and from the smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, I could only assume it was one of those gossip sheets.

  “Anything scandalous this morning?” I asked as I settled into my chair, reaching for the teapot.

  “Oh, the usual,” Eliza replied, taking a sip of tea before flicking her fingers against the page. “Lord Arnold was apparently seen leaving the opera with someone other than his wife.”

  I chuckled as I poured myself a cup. “How utterly shocking.”

  “A travesty, truly.” Eliza folded the pamphlet and set it aside, reaching for a scone. “Do you suppose anyone actually believes half of what they print?”

  “I suspect they do,” I said, spreading fresh clotted cream onto my scone. “Or at least, they choose to because it makes for an entertaining breakfast conversation.”

  Eliza hummed in agreement, watching as I carefully arranged my pte. “You know, you ought to do something scandalous yourself, just to see if you make the papers.”

  I arched a brow. “And what, precisely, do you suggest?”

  “Perhaps a mysterious rendezvous with a dashing gentleman?”

  I rolled my eyes, taking a bite of my scone. “I think I’ll pass.”

  The conversation psed into a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional clink of china and the distant chirping outside. The morning stretched ahead of us, unhurried and calm. After a short while, Eliza set down her teacup and regarded me with an appraising look. “You’ve been coming home te these past two days.”

  I reached for my tea, willing myself to appear unaffected. “There have been a lot of patients, and we’re still somewhat understaffed.”

  Eliza made a noncommittal sound, stirring her tea with deliberate slowness. “I suppose that makes sense.” She paused, tilting her head. “Still, it’s unusual. You usually make it home at a reasonable hour, even when things are busy.”

  I shrugged. “We’ve had a few complicated cases. And with few hands to help, everything takes longer.”

  Eliza tapped her fingers against the rim of her teacup. “Mm. I imagine long hours must be exhausting.”

  “They are.” I took a sip of my tea, hoping that would be the end of it.

  Eliza, however, was not so easily deterred. “It’s just odd, that’s all. You don’t seem particurly worn down by it.”

  I forced a light ugh. “Oh, I assure you, I am.”

  She studied me for a moment before reaching for another scone. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say there was something—or someone—keeping you at work ter than usual.”

  I kept my expression carefully neutral. “Nothing of the sort.”

  “Really?” She took a slow bite, watching me. “No mysterious confidants? No interesting new acquaintances?”

  “Unless you count Mrs. Brooks’ unending compints about her neighbor’s cat, then no.”

  Eliza sighed dramatically. “What a disappointment.”

  I smiled faintly and focused on my pte. The truth was, I had lingered after my shift, finding myself engaged in quiet conversations with Benedict. I wasn’t sure why I kept doing it—perhaps because those moments felt oddly comforting, a secret corner of the day that belonged only to me. But there was no reason to tell Eliza that. For now, my excuse would suffice.

  Eliza took another sip of tea before casually remarking, “We shall have our lesson after we both get dressed for the day. I’ve set up in Ezra’s old study.”

  I looked up at her, surprised. “Father’s study?”

  She nodded. “It’s mine now. You haven’t been in since, have you?”

  I shook my head, the thought leaving an odd feeling in my chest. But I merely said, “Very well.”

  After breakfast, I made my way upstairs, where Josephine was already waiting with my gown. She helped me slip into the desaturated light blue fabric, fastening the buttons with practiced ease. As I sat at the vanity, she worked deftly, gathering my hair into a bun, leaving delicate spaniel loops framing my face.

  “There, mademoiselle,” she said with a satisfied nod, stepping back. “A lovely style for the day.”

  I smiled at her reflection in the mirror. “Thank you, Josephine.”

  Feeling composed, I stepped into the hallway, making my way toward the study. As I approached the double doors, I hesitated for just a moment before pcing my hand on the handle. I pushed them open. The room was quiet, filled with the scent of aged paper and polished wood. A rge wooden desk sat before a tall window on the back wall, light spilling in through the gss. Two chairs faced the desk from the opposite side, and behind them, two towering bookshelves stretched upward, their shelves filled to the brim with tomes of varying conditions—some so worn and fragile they could hardly be called books anymore.

  I let my fingers trail along the edge of the desk, exhaling softly. This room held stories beyond those in the books, memories woven into the very air.Eliza stood near the bookshelf, already waiting. “Shall we begin?” she asked, arching a brow.

  I straightened my shoulders and nodded. “Let’s.”

  Our French lesson stretched well into the afternoon, the hours slipping by in a haze of conjugations, pronunciation corrections, and the occasional frustrated sigh. We drilled verb tenses until they felt like second nature, repeated tricky phrases over and over, and practiced conversational exchanges that grew more fluid with each attempt. At times, I stumbled, tripping over unfamiliar words, but Eliza’s patience kept me going. By the time we finished, my mind felt pleasantly fatigued, my notes filled with scribbled reminders and new vocabury. Though exhausted, I was proud of the progress I had made, knowing that each session brought me one step closer to fluency.

  Just as we gathered our things, a knock came at the study door. A moment ter, Mr. Lockhart stepped inside, his expression as composed as ever. “Miss Geldart, Miss Elizabeth, you have visitors,” he announced.

  Eliza exchanged a gnce with me, “Who is it, Mr. Lockhart?”

  “Mrs. Geldart and Miss Caroline,” he replied. “They are waiting in the Drawing room.”

  I stifled a sigh, already anticipating the social niceties to come. Eliza, on the other hand, simply smiled and smoothed her skirts. “Well, we shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

  Stepping into the drawing room, I inhaled the comforting scent of freshly steeped Earl Grey, mingling with the sweetness of apple jam and warm scones. Mrs. Davenport, ever efficient, was already setting out the tea service, arranging delicate cucumber sandwiches, shortbread biscuits, and a Victoria sponge cake dusted with fine sugar. The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows on the walls and filling the space with its welcoming warmth.

  Caroline turned toward us, her hazel eyes bright, a knowing smile pying on her lips. She was, as always, dressed to perfection—her rose-colored robe draped elegantly, the high corsage trimmed with a Berthe of point ce. The bishop’s sleeves billowed gracefully, their ce cuffs adding an extra touch of refinement. I noted the three tucks in the skirt, each edged with silk trim, drawing attention to the white satin slippers visible beneath the unlowered hem. The delicate ce ribbons at Caroline’s ankles were a flourish of unnecessary, but entirely characteristic, extravagance. A white ce square shawl completed the ensemble, her brown hair falling in glossy ringlets around her shoulders, framing her face with a softness that only enhanced her beauty. Though she had our mother’s eyes, the rest of her features were her own.

  Mama stood comfortably behind Caroline, the very image of poised elegance. Her white robe was pristine, its corsage half-high and trimmed with a delicate fall of ce. The demi-rge sleeves gave the gown a banced grace, the two deep flounces at the hem adorned with ce that only added to the richness of the ensemble. A green and white pid shawl, finished with a lush fringe, was wrapped around her shoulders. I caught the familiar auburn hue of her hair, styled in a bun with pin spaniel loops. I had inherited more than just her coloring—I was the one who truly looked like her, only with Father’s eyes.

  After exchanging greetings, we all settled onto the two sofas by the firepce, Eliza and I took our pces opposite Caroline and Mama. As expected, Caroline wasted no time in sharing the details of her test excursion. “We’ve just returned from town,” she announced, her voice tinged with excitement. “I had a few hems lowered to prepare my wardrobe for next year’s debut.”

  Mama beamed with pride. “Caroline is considered quite an accomplished beauty. She has already received two proposals, though we turned them down, given her age.”

  I watched as Eliza lifted her teacup with a knowing gnce. “Two proposals already? That is impressive.”

  Caroline offered a demure smile. “It was fttering but premature. There will be time enough for such matters.”

  I stirred a bit of sugar into my tea, gncing at my sister with a mix of amusement and fondness. “You do take after Mama in the eyes, at least.”

  Mama nodded approvingly. “That is true. But you, Elizabeth, have always carried more of my expressions.”

  I chuckled. “A blessing or a curse, depending on whom you ask.”

  As the conversation continued, I found myself absorbing the scene—the warmth of the fire, the delicate porcein in my hands, the knowing gnces exchanged between myself and Eliza. Caroline was eager for the future, basking in the promise of her debut, while Mama reveled in the admiration her youngest daughter had already received.

  I should have been used to it by now, this feeling of being just slightly apart. I had never desired a debut, nor had I cared about the hems of my dresses or the test embellishments from town. And for that, I had slowly lost those easy moments with Mama—afternoons spent discussing fashion, practicing polite conversation, and considering future prospects. Instead, those hours belonged to Caroline, who fit so perfectly into the expectations set before her. It wasn’t jealousy, not really. Just a quiet ache, an understanding that while I looked the most like Mama, I did not belong to her world the way Caroline did.

  I sipped my tea, offering a polite smile at the test comment from my sister, but my mind drifted elsewhere, away from the talk of gowns and suitors, wondering if there would ever be a pce for me in the conversations that mattered.

  “Sister,” Caroline’s voice suddenly broke through my thoughts, drawing my attention back to the present. “Have you spoken to Benedict at all?”

  I nearly choked on my tea. “What?”

  Caroline smirked, clearly enjoying my flustered state. “Benedict. Have you spoken with him?”

  “I—well, we’ve exchanged words,” I stammered, my face growing warm. “Nothing of significance.”

  That was a lie. We had spoken, more than once. I had lingered after work, finding excuses to stay just a little longer, to let our conversations stretch past what was necessary. But I wasn’t about to admit that to Caroline—not to anyone. Aunt Eliza, ever the opportunist, turned her attention to Mama. “Adeide, I must say, Elizabeth has been returning home rather te these days.”

  Mama’s expression shifted instantly from amusement to concern. “Elizabeth, is this true?” I opened my mouth to expin, but she continued before I could. “You must understand how dangerous the streets are at night. You could be robbed—or worse.” Her hazel eyes, usually so composed, were sharp with worry. “You must take care to return at a reasonable hour.”

  I lowered my gaze, unsure of what to say. The weight of her concern settled over me, pressing down on my already restless thoughts. I had never meant to worry her, but I wasn’t sure I could expin why the night air felt so freeing, why lingering outside the confines of expectation felt necessary. Or why I stayed to talk to Benedict when I should have just gone home. “I will be more careful,” I murmured, unable to meet her gaze.

  Mama sighed, reaching for her tea again. “See that you do.”

  Caroline, seemingly satisfied with the reaction she had elicited, returned to her cake, though I caught the glimmer of curiosity in her expression. I wished I knew how to expin myself, but for now, I simply sipped my tea and let the conversation move past me once more.

  As Mama and Caroline rose to leave, I followed them to the door, my hands csped before me in a show of polite farewell. Mama adjusted her gloves with casual ease, but Caroline lingered, casting a gnce toward our mother before turning back to me.

  Then, with a sudden flick of her fingers, she beckoned me closer. I hesitated for only a moment before leaning in. "Write to me about Benedict," she whispered, her breath warm against my ear. "I know you’ve been talking to him. And you like him."

  My breath caught, and I pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. Caroline’s eyes were alight with mischief, but beneath that, I saw something else—something softer, fond, expectant. I opened my mouth, but no words came.

  She only smiled, pressing my hands briefly in hers. "You know I love a good romance," she murmured before turning gracefully to take Mama’s arm.

  I stood there, rooted in pce, watching as they disappeared into the carriage.