I found Mrs. Davenport in the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up and her hands deep in a mixing bowl. The scent of warm cinnamon hung in the air, and something delicate and buttery was cooling on the wire rack on the side table. She looked up when I stepped in. “You’re early for supper inquiries, Miss,” she said, arching a brow.
“I’m not here about supper,” I replied, stepping closer. “I’m having tea with Miss Levingston and Miss Sedgewick this afternoon. Could you put together something light? Perhaps some shortbread biscuits and strawberry tarts?”
She set the bowl down and wiped her hands on her apron, already nodding. "Scones as well?”
“Yes, definitely. Pippa said she loves them.”
She smiled faintly, “Where will you be taking tea, Miss?”
“The Morning Room. The light is lovely this time of day,” I said, hearing the slight tremor in my voice and hoping she didn’t.
Mrs. Davenport gave no indication that she noticed. “I’ll send it in just before the hour,” she said, returning to her mixing with the same calm she brought to every part of the house.
I left the kitchen and made my way through the corridor toward the Drawing Room, catching sight of Mr. Lockhart just as he emerged from the linen cupboard with a folded cloth draped over his arm. “Mr. Lockhart,” I called.
He turned smoothly. “Miss Elizabeth.”
“I need the small table from the Drawing Room moved into the Morning Room,” I said. “In front of the chaise lounge. And the two chairs by the bookshelf—those should go with it. One on each side.”
He gave a shallow nod, efficient as ever. “I’ll see to it immediately, Miss.”
I thanked him and drifted back to the Morning Room, feeling its soft hush wrap around me like a breath held in. The light filtered in through the tall windows, warming the pale blue walls and gilded edges of the furniture. Everything was still, expectant. I began to pace, slowly at first, then in longer strides. The clock in the hall ticked with maddening precision. They would be arriving any minute. It was a curious thing—how seeing them outside of the hospital made me feel so exposed. We were always so composed there, bound by the structure of our work. Here, it was different. No patients, no logbook, no brisk professionalism to shield behind.
I smoothed my skirt, then crossed the room only to turn back once more. The pacing wasn’t helping, but staying still felt impossible. I pressed my fingers to the windowpane, the gss cool against my skin, and tried to slow the pace of my breath. I heard the soft tread of footsteps behind me. “Aunt Eliza,” I said, startled.
She stepped inside without her usual announcement, her face calm and knowing. “You’re going to wear a path in that rug,” she said lightly.
I gave a half-ugh, not quite able to meet her eyes. “Is it that obvious?”
She tilted her head. “You’re nervous. Which is strange, considering you’ve handled ward shortages, a dozen women with influenza at once, and young women in full hysterics without blinking.”
“This is different,” I said, finally turning to face her. “They’re not... colleagues today. They’re guests. I don’t even know if they’ll want to be here, or if they’re just humoring me.”
Eliza crossed to me and took my hands, grounding me with the warmth of her touch. “They said yes, didn’t they? They could’ve made excuses if they didn’t want to come.”
“I suppose.”
“No,” she said, squeezing gently. “Not ‘suppose.’ They like you, Elizabeth. Outside of the ward, outside of the walls we live behind. This is just tea. A beginning, maybe, but still just tea.” Her confidence in me made something tighten in my throat. I nodded, blinking faster than I wanted to.
“Besides,” she added with a wry smile, “you’ve orchestrated this like a general pnning a campaign. The Morning Room looks lovely. They’ll be charmed.”
A faint ugh escaped me then. “I feel like I’m fourteen again, trying to impress Mother.”
“Well,” Eliza said, stepping back with a grin, “you’re doing a fine job of it.”
A knock at the front door rang out faintly through the corridor. “They’re here,” I breathed.
Eliza just gave me one st look—firm, encouraging—and then swept out as quietly as she’d come, leaving me to face what came next. Mr. Lockhart opened the door, stepping aside with a polite bow as Phillipa and Constance entered. I stood just beyond the threshold of the Morning Room, hands csped to keep them from fidgeting.
They removed their bonnets with quiet grace, and that’s when I noticed—really noticed—that their clothing was no more eborate than what they wore on the ward. Phillipa’s gown was pid, green and yellow, cheerful but sensible. The fabric near the cuffs was frayed, though it had been mended carefully. Constance wore a soft blue that made her golden hair appear almost luminous in the afternoon light. Simple, well-kept. Unadorned. I felt overdressed beside them. Silks and ce suddenly seemed like too much, a kind of decoration I hadn’t meant to funt. My dress whispered privilege, even if I hadn’t chosen it to. I fought the urge to smooth the front of my skirt again.
“Lilibet,” Phillipa said, smiling as she stepped forward. “Thank you for inviting us.”
Constance nodded, her voice quieter. “It’s beautiful here.”
“I’m so gd you both came,” I said, and I meant every word. It felt good to say it out loud.
We exchanged a few pleasantries, the kind that hovers on the edge of formality, and then I led them into the Morning Room. The light had shifted just slightly, falling now in long, soft beams through the sheer curtains. Constance took the chaise lounge, sinking into it with the kind of stillness that made her look like part of a painting. The sunlight poured over her shoulder, catching in the folds of her gown. Phillipa and I took the chairs, our skirts brushing against the floorboards, and for a brief second none of us spoke. It was quiet, but not the brittle kind of quiet that makes people anxious. Phillipa broke it first, “This feels very grand,” she said, looking around with a sly smile. “I half expect a duchess to appear and scold us for breathing too loud.”
I ughed, the tension in my shoulders dissolving all at once. “No duchesses today. Just strawberry tarts and hospital gossip.” That made them both ugh and suddenly I wasn’t a hostess anymore, or a superior, or anything else that felt stiff and separate. I was just Elizabeth. And we were just three women having tea.
A soft knock on the doorframe preceded Mrs. Davenport’s entrance. She moved with her usual quiet efficiency, carrying a silver tray den with a teapot, three cups, a small dish of cream, and a pte of warm scones that smelled faintly of butter. “Thank you, Mrs. Davenport,” I said as she pced everything on the table between us. She gave a small curtsy and slipped back out, leaving the scent of fresh-baked comfort in her wake.
I busied myself with the teapot, grateful for the small task. “Tea?” I asked, gncing between them. Both nodded, and I poured carefully, adding a spsh of cream to each before handing them their cups. My hands felt steadier now.
Phillipa took a sip, then looked around the room with a soft smile. “This really is lovely, Lilibet. The way the light comes through the curtains... And that pianoforte in the corner—what a beautiful piece. Is it walnut?”
I followed her gaze. “Yes, I believe so. It was my grandfather’s.”
“And the books,” she added, gesturing toward the tall shelf behind me. “It feels like a room meant for thinking.”
Constance set her cup down gently. “And the furniture—so refined, but it doesn’t feel stiff. It’s warm. Lived-in.”
I smiled, feeling a strange flicker of pride, though none of it was my doing. “Thank you. This was my father’s house. He lived here when he was younger. But after he married my mother—and once she became pregnant with my older brother—they moved into the ancestral home in Hatfield. That’s where I grew up.” Constance nodded, encouraging. "I used to visit here often as a child. We’d come for weekends, or sometimes just the day. But as I got older, I stopped coming as much. Life got busy. Lessons, school, and all the rest.”
I paused, gncing at the pianoforte. “When my grandfather passed, two years ago now, my father stopped spending as much time here. He began focusing more on the family. On my mother. On all of us, really.” There was a quiet moment. Not awkward—just thoughtful. “I suppose that’s why I’ve taken to this house the way I have,” I added. “It feels like something half-remembered. Familiar, but changed.”
Neither of them said anything at first. Just the gentle clink of Phillipa setting her cup down, the scent of scones filling the space between us. Constance shifted slightly on the chaise, a new brightness coming into her eyes. “Well,” she said, her tone light but unmistakably earnest, “before we go any further, I think congratutions are in order for making it to your two weeks. And for gaining the title of Sister. That’s no small thing, Elizabeth. You’ve more than earned it.”
Heat rose to my cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from something deeper. Gratitude. Maybe even disbelief.
Before I could find the words to respond, Phillipa leaned forward, her expression unguarded and warm. “She’s right,” she said. “You’ve taken so much off my shoulders already. I don’t think I realized how heavy it all was until you were there helping me carry it. Truly, I mean that. I don’t know how we managed without you before.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes glistened just slightly. She gave a quiet ugh, brushing a crumb from her skirt. “Now I can’t imagine the ward without you. And I don’t want to.”
I swallowed hard. For once, I had no well-practiced reply, no tidy remark to tuck away the emotion. I could only sit there, tea cooling in my hand, and try to keep my throat from tightening too much. “Thank you,” I managed finally. It felt small, but it was all I had. “That means more than I can say.”
Phillipa reached over and gave my hand a brief, firm squeeze. “You don’t have to say anything. Just keep showing up like you do.”
And just like that, something shifted again—not in the room, but in me. Their words settled into the quiet pces I hadn’t realized were still unsure. I was part of this now. Not just the ward, but them. This life. This strange and hard and sometimes beautiful life. I leaned back into my chair, the china cup cradled in my hands now empty but still warm. “So,” I said, a little more boldly than before, “what do you both do when you’re not at the hospital?”
Constance raised a brow, surprised. “You mean... outside of work?”
“Yes,” I said, smiling. “We spend so much of our lives in that building, elbow-deep in tinctures and bed linens, it’s easy to forget there’s a world beyond it. I want to know what you do—when you’re not all starch and discipline.”
Phillipa gave a short ugh. “I forget myself, half the time.”
“No,” Constance said, a small, pleased smile forming. “You py the pianoforte.”
Phillipa gave a little shrug, suddenly bashful. “Poorly. And mostly when no one is listening.”
“That’s not true,” Constance countered. “You’re quite good. I heard you pying that little piece—what was it, Schubert?”
Phillipa gave her a grateful look, then turned to me. “It was Chopin. But yes. I py. Helps settle my thoughts after a long day. Especially after—well, you know the kinds of days I mean.”
I nodded, knowing exactly the kind. “And you, Constance?”
“I sew,” she said simply, “Always have. Mother made sure of it. Thought it was important I knew how to make a proper hem before I learned to spell my name.”
“You sew?” I echoed, eyebrows raised.
“Don’t sound so shocked,” she said, amused. “You think I spend all my evenings reading medical journals? Honestly, Elizabeth.”
“Lilibet,” Phillipa said with a smirk, biting into a scone topped with clotted cream. “You walked into that one.”
Constance gnced at me and, almost casually, said, “And stop calling me Constance. It’s Connie unless you want me to start calling you Sister Withers every time I see you.”
I stared. “Are you serious?”
“As a ruptured spleen,” she replied, grinning. “We’re not on the ward now. And frankly, I like you too much to keep things formal.”
“Connie,” I said, testing it out. “All right. But you have to call me Lilibet.”
We sat in thoughtful silence for a moment before Phillipa added, “And what about you, Lilibet? What secrets do you hide behind that polished calm?”
I ughed. “Nothing so useful. I read, mostly. Walk when I can. I used to ride, before I moved here, but I haven’t touched a saddle in months. I have nguage lessons with my aunt. And I dabble in sketching, though I’d never show anyone the results.”
“You should bring something to the ward,” Constance said gently. “We could use more beauty there.”
That warmed me more than the tea had. “Maybe I will.”
Conversation drifted easily from there—talk of hobbies gave way to home. Phillipa spoke of her mother who still tried to correct her posture every time she visited. Constance mentioned her younger sister, who recently got engaged to a curate, and the headaches involved in pnning a wedding with their particur aunt involved.
The talk turned, naturally, to the hospital. We chuckled over Miss Sommer’s dramatic insistence that her foot was “possessed,” and how Sister Selwyn, in the Surgical ward, had spent the better part of Thursday trying to convince her otherwise. Constance performed a decent imitation of Dr. Throckmorton's puzzled scowl, causing Phillipa to nearly snort her tea. I ughed until my sides ached.
Another knock sounded at the door frame, and in came Mrs. Davenport once more—this time with a fresh pot of tea, a pte stacked with golden shortbread biscuits, and a dish of delicate strawberry tarts that glistened in the afternoon light. “Just in time,” Phillipa said, eyeing the biscuits.
Mrs. Davenport gave a ghost of a smile as she pced the tray down. “I thought you might need a second wind.” She slipped out again, and we wasted no time. The tarts melted on the tongue, the strawberries sweet and sun-warmed. The biscuits crumbled perfectly, buttery and light.
We poured fresh tea, the scent of bergamot rising again, and the afternoon light stretched across the rug in golden sts. We spoke of everything and nothing—books we’d meant to read, clothes we’d ruined on the ward, the oddities of certain donors who toured the hospital as if it were a museum. Jokes spilled freely, followed by ughter that loosened something in all of us. Eventually, the clock in the hall chimed softly. We’d sat through nearly three full hours, yet I could hardly believe it.
Eliza came rushing into the room, her cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes bright, a letter clutched in her hand. “I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she said, catching her breath, “but I just got the post and I knew you’d want to hear this right away, Elizabeth.”
I looked up, puzzled. “I didn’t even hear the post come in. What is it?”
She waved the letter a little. “The Broughs are inviting the entire family over for dinner in a fortnight.”
My heart lifted. “The Broughs? Truly? Oh, I haven’t seen my cousins in years.” Across from me, Constance and Phillipa exchanged a gnce. I caught it but didn’t know how to read it.
Phillipa raised an eyebrow and asked, “You mean the Duke of Bedford? That Brough?”
I ughed, but it came out more awkward than amused. “Not the duke himself—his son. He’s a cousin of my father’s.” That silence that always seems to creep in when people realize something about you they didn’t know followed. I could feel the weight of it settle between us. I wished I could expin better, soften whatever edge they thought they saw.
I suddenly felt silly. I grew up on a grand estate and attended balls. I've been presented to the Queen. Meanwhile, Constance and Phillipa had worked for everything. They were nurses because they had to be. I got to be one because I wanted to. Eliza seemed to sense my discomfort. She stepped forward and looked between them. "Please don’t let this change the way you see her. Elizabeth is one of the kindest, most grounded people I’ve ever known. She’s always thinking of others before herself, always putting their needs ahead of her own. Being reted to aristocracy doesn't take away who she is at her core. You both know that—she’s the type of person who would go out of her way just to make sure someone else is okay."
Phillipa’s expression softened a bit. “We do,” she said finally. “It just caught us off guard.”
I smiled, relieved. “I understand. Honestly, I forget about all that most of the time.” But I didn’t forget how it felt in that moment—to be reminded that no matter how much I tried to just be me, there were still parts of my life that might never quite sit right with others.
Eliza gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before slipping out of the room, her warmth lingering even after her footsteps could be heard on the stairs. The tension loosened as if her departure had taken it with her. Constance picked up her tea again, and Phillipa sat back with a small sigh, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Honestly,” Phillipa said after a moment, “if I had cousins in grand estates, I’d brag about it constantly. You’ve got some admirable restraint.”
I let out a ugh—an actual one this time. “Trust me, there’s not much to brag about. They’re a rowdy bunch—more likely to race carriages through the rose garden than discuss pheasant over port.”
“Oh no,” Constance said with mock horror. “The poor pheasant.”
We all ughed at that. Just like that, the mood shifted, friendly and familiar. The kind that comes from long days spent side by side, shoulders nearly touching, lives running parallel in quiet ways.
Time passed in that soft, pleasant way it often did when I was with them. We didn’t need to fill every silence. Being in the same space was enough. But just before the sun dropped behind the trees and bathed the room in gold, Phillipa looked out the window and sighed. “It’s ter than I thought. We should be getting back.”
I nodded and stood, stepping toward the bell pull. “Mr. Lockhart,” I called a moment ter as he appeared, ever composed. “Would you ready the carriage? Connie and Pippa are heading home.”
The three of us moved into the front hall, where the te light cast long shadows on the tiled floor. Constance reached for her bonnet while Phillipa fastened the buttons on her gloves. Mr. Lockhart was already waiting with their cloaks draped over his arm. He handed them over one at a time and held each one open with practiced ease as they slipped into them. We embraced at the door—quick hugs and the usual pecks on the cheek.
“If you need anything,” I said, and I meant it, “anything at all—you know where to find me.”
“We know,” Constance said, touching my arm.
“See you tomorrow,” Phillipa added with a wink as they stepped into the waiting carriage.
I stood at the door and watched until they disappeared down the ne, the sound of wheels fading into the dusk. I closed the door softly behind me and leaned against it for a long moment. It creaked slightly with my weight, the silence of the house folding in around me. I had a warm home, a full pantry, and staff ready at the pull of a bell. They had rented rooms and counted pennies between shifts. And yet, they never compined. The weight of it sat heavy on my chest—the unevenness of it all. I had everything. And they… didn’t.
