I have to say that I am concerned about your state of mind. Your last letter was frightfully serious. When you mentioned that you were determined to use your enforced idleness to read some improving material, I thought you meant digesting an etiquette manual or two—and in the process discovering all the rules which you have blithely broken! A Guide to Manners, Etiquette and Deportment of the Most Refined Society is the kind of thing I imagined, not Mr. Mayhew’s no doubt very worthy book, London Labour and the London Poor. Do not imagine yourself unique in showing an interest in the less fortunate, however. I am willing to wager that another young woman of my acquaintance has read it. Lenchen’s friend Lucy, who last year became Lady Frederick Cavendish, has taken up good works with gusto since her marriage. Amongst other things, she has been assisting at a soup-kitchen in Westminster. Would you like me to facilitate an introduction? I’m sure Lucy and the new, philanthropically minded Lady Margaret would have much to discuss.

Have you any news at all of your potential return to the world? Surely four months is penance enough. It is only a few weeks until Xmas now, and I have already started working on my little albums for gifts—you remember, those with the pressed flowers and leaves, and my drawings opposite? Oh, M., you have no idea how much I miss you. I am bereft of good company. No-one laughs with me as you do. Shall I use my influence and ask the queen to command the duchess to restore you to my presence? I am sorely tempted, save that my mother would be bound to take offence at my finding her company insufficient, and that would be a shame, for I have worked so hard at persuading her that I am quite her favourite!

I have enclosed a length of silk from a bale which I chose for a morning gown. There should be enough material for one for you as well. I know that turquoise is your favourite colour, and fortunately it also suits me very well. I’ve taken the liberty of sketching a design for you. You are forever saying that you envy my style, so now you may adopt it! Consider it an early Christmas present. If you can find someone to make it up, you can wear it on Christmas Day which, I do most sincerely hope, will be spent in the bosom of your family. They cannot possibly leave you all alone at Dalkeith on that day of all days, can they?

I will write more very soon, I promise.

Your very best friend, always and forever,

Louise

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Dalkeith Palace, Scotland, Monday, Christmas Day, 1865